


Going Beyond

by BeautyGraceOuterSpace



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Crew as Family, Depression, Disordered Eating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jim needs a hug, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Recovery, Tarsus IV, Therapy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, post beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23138365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyGraceOuterSpace/pseuds/BeautyGraceOuterSpace
Summary: It’s like the old proverbs say: it’s lonely out in space.His captaincy is lonelier than he could have imagined, and changes happen so fast. In the blink of an eye, years have passed and they’ve gone from solar fire-- the crew that did the impossible and beat all the odds-- to repetitive milk runs and the steady, stalwart duties of a Starfleet flagship. Daring exploration gives way to the overly formal procedural ops of negotiations and treaties, and while Jim sees the good in it he can’t help but miss the days when it felt like what he was doing mattered.Following the aftermath of Star Trek: Beyond, faced with the decimation of his crew and ship and a loss of self, Jim struggles to piece his life back together on Yorktown.
Comments: 42
Kudos: 200





	Going Beyond

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, again, dear readers. 
> 
> I apologize for any confusion I may have caused. Some of you may recall that I had posted four chapters of a fic with the same name and premise. Unfortunately, the writing style I had chosen was not working out for me, and last month I made the decision to rework those chapters into what has become this fic. I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> My eternal thanks to the many folks who read segments of this fic for proofreading and edits. While the majority of it is largely unedited and I reserve the right to make minor adjustments later on for the sake of improvement, I could not have done this without you all. 
> 
> Much of this fic is based on my own experiences with depression, anxiety, and therapy. I do not claim to be a professional, but I've done my best to accurately portray these elements within the scope of Jim's character. 
> 
> If you enjoy, please let me know! Your comments and kudos make my day!

It’s like the old proverbs say: it’s lonely out in space. 

His captaincy is lonelier than he could have imagined, and changes happen so fast. In the blink of an eye, years have passed and they’ve gone from solar fire-- the crew that did the impossible and beat all the odds-- to repetitive milk runs and the steady, stalwart duties of a Starfleet flagship. Daring exploration gives way to the overly formal procedural ops of negotiations and treaties, and while Jim sees the good in it he can’t help but miss the days when it felt like what he was doing _mattered._

In no time at all, they’ve gone from masters of fate-- united against the universe-- to coworkers, passing aimlessly in the hallways and doing their duty, but little else. And for the first time in his life, Jim feels stagnant. 

Every day is the same. 

The same clothes, the same place, the same people, the same food, the same work. It rarely varies, these days. While he loves his crew and his ship dearly, he can’t help the guilty and carefully ignored yearning for something-- _anything--_ else lately. He’s long past the comfortable familiarity of settling into a routine, past the restless anxiety of craving change, and has fallen somewhere into resigned acceptance. 

And while Jim was nothing if not a master at pushing aside his own discomfort and desires in favor of a greater good, the repetition wears on him heavily. Everything just seemed harder, somehow. 

For all that it seemed time was moving too fast, speeding along with or without their realizing it, it simultaneously felt like the days grew longer the further into their mission they got. Out in the black, it was hard sometimes to keep track of time passing. Surrounded by friends day in and day out, it was tricky to pin down the moments that changed them-- the gradual alterations to their appearance and behavior that indicated who they had become and blurred the lines of who they had been when they started out. But they were all different, and he wasn’t sure it was for the better, necessarily.

Age and familiarity seemed to be doing little but pushing them apart; there was no extra effort made to get to know one another or make plans anymore, and for most of the crew that seemed to be alright. Jim wasn’t sure what exactly was troubling him about it; he still saw everyone every day, still worked alongside them and chatted with them frequently, but he missed the comfortable companionship that had been lacking the last several months. He missed meeting with Spock and Uhura for a cup of tea in the evenings when they were free, talking quietly in the mess, or sparring sessions with Sulu before their shift. He missed spending time in engineering with Scotty and discussing navigational strategies with Chekov. 

But Spock and Uhura had seemed distant for a while, both from each other and from everyone else. He’d attempted to bring it up once or twice, but neither of them seemed open to discussing whatever it was that was causing the tension between them. Then Spock had started turning down Jim’s invitations to play chess during their downtime, and Jim had taken the hint. Clearly they needed space, and Jim would let them have it. 

Chekov had found himself a girlfriend, and that pretty much occupied all of his free time; Jim left him to it. Sulu had dedicated himself to a botany study and had been working overtime between his hours in the greenhouse and his shifts on the bridge. Maybe Scotty would have had time to chat with Jim, but each time Jim considered making his way there something stopped him-- someone needed him for something or other, or he just couldn’t bring himself to face the disappointment if he headed that way only to be brushed off again. 

Most days, Jim spent his shift on the bridge or planetside for a treaty negotiation if he was lucky. Any change of scenery was welcome. He kept morale up and a smile plastered on his face that felt just shy of breaking, brittle and forced. 

He spent most evenings alone. Occasionally, he’d wind up with Bones in his quarters, the doctor filling him in on his latest updates from Joanna or sitting with him in companionable silence; more often than not the conversation turned to work. Jim wasn’t sure when they had become the type of people who only talked about their jobs, but he couldn’t say he cared for it much. He craved their easy banter and open communication, waited with baited breath for Bones to notice that he was off kilter and to pester him into figuring out what the hell was wrong with him so he could start to move past it. 

But whenever Bones shot him a concerned look when Jim’s eyes squinted just so in the way that clearly indicated he had a migraine coming on, or hesitantly asked him if he was feeling alright, Jim waved off his concern. The combination of disappointment and relief when Bones let it slide grew each time. 

* * *

Jim noticed his appetite decreasing; he always did, when it waned. He forced himself to choke down ration bars a few times a day if he couldn’t manage anything else, but he didn’t realize how habitual that had become until his uniform started hanging off of him differently. He put in a request to the quarter-master for different sizes and got himself called into an impromptu physical for it. Several unnecessary and mildly aggravating tests and questions from Bones later, he managed to get a word in edgewise and quietly insisted, “I’m just tired, Bones.”

It wasn’t a lie… not really. Jim’s fuse was more than burnt out and he felt the bone-deep exhaustion weighing on him more each day. But it’s not the truth, either. 

Bones stared at him for longer than was strictly necessary before clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Get some rest, kid. You’re on medical leave for the next forty-eight hours. Get some sleep, get some food, and take it easy.” 

Jim nodded and made his way back to his quarters, fully intending to make good on Bones’ suggestion to have a decent meal and maybe read a book during the downtime. But by the time he made it back to his room he found he didn’t want to do either. Instead, he crawled onto his bed, still fully dressed, dragged the blankets over himself, and slept. 

He slept for most of the next two days.

The next several weeks passed in a bit of a haze, but Jim found he didn’t quite care. He still got up and performed his duties as captain every day. He tried not to dwell on it when Spock refused to look at him or barely spoke to him in the turbolift or on the bridge. He tried to stay focused throughout his shifts, but most of the time he just wished he could sleep. 

When the offer for the position of Vice Admiral came through, it sparked his curiosity and he found himself reviewing the documents carefully. He read it through three times before setting down his PADD to think-- and that made him pause. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have even read the thing before firing off a polite _thanks, but no._ But now…

He nearly deleted it a dozen times; he could never quite bring himself to do it, though.

* * *

It had been a while since Jim had experienced an anxiety attack, but he still recognizes it when one hits. He’d hoped it was a one off when he’d reached his quarters after a shift-- bidding Spock a good evening without so much as a glance in response-- leaned his back against the door, and found his hands trembling where they gripped the frame. 

He focused his breathing, shook out the tension between his shoulders, and stumbled towards the bathroom to splash some water on his face as he waited for it to pass. 

But when it starts happening once or twice a week, he finds it harder to ignore. 

He debates mentioning it to Bones. 

He never does. 

* * *

When Bones asked him if he was free for a drink after his shift, Jim shouldn’t have been surprised. His birthday was coming up, and he usually spent his birthday with Bones. Well… he usually _acknowledged_ his birthday with Bones; drunken nights out during their academy days had become drunken nights in if they could both swing the off time, and those had tapered off to a shared drink in the quiet of their quarters and a toast to the memory of Jim’s father. But Jim preferred to pretend the actual day didn’t exist. 

Jim was almost shocked Bones remembered, but he pushed those thoughts aside; Bones had never forgotten, there was no reason to believe he’d start now, even if Jim had been less social lately. He shot off a quick message confirming and then placed a hold on one of the lower deck lounges. His own quarters were a mess-- he typically returned after his shift, doffed the uniform and donned sweats and a t-shirt before crawling into bed, and the laundry had definitely piled up-- and he didn’t want to impose on Bones by commandeering his rooms on such short notice. 

The lounge was free, and Jim’s birthday was a well-kept secret; they wouldn’t be disturbed. 

He arrived earlier than Bones, and no sooner had he seated himself than his communicator chirped with a notification and he got a message from the doctor informing Jim that he was running late. Forcing back the thoughts that he seemed unable to shake these days-- busy, they were all just _busy,_ that was all-- he seated himself at the bar and poured himself a drink. He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but it burned going down and that served as a decent distraction from his self-deprecating train of thought, if only for a moment. 

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before the doors swished open and Bones entered, making a beeline for the bar and drawling out, “Sorry I’m late. Keenser’s leaking some kind of highly acidic green goo, and Scotty’s terrified he’s gonna sneeze on the warp core and kill us all.” 

Jim huffed a laugh as he raised his glass to his lips. The warp core had done enough damage on its own, as far as he was concerned. He still had trouble going near the damn thing. But far be it from him to prevent life-threatening catastrophe. 

Bones glanced from the nearly empty carafe at Jim’s elbow to the glass in his hand with barely concealed alarm. “What the hell are you drinking?” 

“Uh--” Jim faltered, as Bones lifted the aerator to his nose and sniffed lightly. “I think it’s the last of the Saurian brandy we picked up on Theysis.” 

“My God, man,” Bones grumbled, recoiling. “You _tryin’_ to go blind?” He continued, a hint of sarcastic chastisement lifting his tone, “That stuff’s illegal. Besides… I found this--” he held aloft a bottle of deep, rich brown liquor, “--in Chekov’s locker.” 

Jim glanced at the label in surprise as he took the bottle. “Wow.”

“Right?” Bones asked as he moved to search the nearby cabinets for additional glasses. “And I always assumed he’d be a vodka guy--” 

“A vodka guy,” Jim concurred. “Exactly.” 

Finding the glassware, Bones returned to the bar, standing opposite Jim’s seat. “I wanted to have something appropriate for your birthday,” he explained, as if he needed to justify the unofficial confiscation of the booze. 

Jim made a sound of acknowledgement as Bones popped the cork on the bottle. “It’s in a couple days,” he said, eyes fixed on the bar countertop. “You know I don’t care about that.” 

“I know,” Bones replied placatingly, pouring a generous amount into each of the three glasses he had procured. “And I know you don’t like celebrating it on the day ‘cause it’s also the day your pa bit the dust--” At a reproachful glance from Jim, he continued, “I was being sensitive.” 

Meeting his eye for the first time since his arrival, Jim asked, “Did they teach you about bedside manner in medical school?” Bones rolled his eyes. Jim smirked and lifted his glass. “It’s just your southern charm.” 

Together, they raised a toast and gently clinked their glasses against the third settled between them, their traditional tribute to George Kirk and the sacrifice he’d made for his son. 

_Not worth it. Not worth it. Not worth it._

Sipping at the whiskey, Bones leaned his elbows against the counter and hesitantly asked, “So are you gonna call your mom?” 

Jim had been attempting to repair his relationship with his mother for the last few years. It wasn’t perfect, and it never would be; he didn’t have any illusions about that. But he made an effort to reach out now and again, and occasionally she reciprocated. Holidays or special occasions had become video-call days for the two of them-- some with more success than others-- but they never missed a call on January fourth. 

He would accept the birthday wishes she gave him and pretend not to notice how teary she got or how many times she mentioned how like his father he looked, and she would do her best not to call him George by mistake. It was a finely honed system they had cultivated. 

“Yeah, of course,” Jim answered, idly spinning his glass. “I’ll call her on the day.” After a moment of silence, he couldn’t help the disbelieving breath that escaped him. “One year older,” he murmured. 

Thirty. Thirty years old. There was a time Jim couldn’t see himself making it to twenty, let alone _thirty._

“Yeah,” Bones replied, mildly mocking, “that’s usually how it works.” 

Jim paused; he knew what Bones was doing. He was trying to get him to open up, to talk, to bare his soul, and not too long ago, Jim wouldn’t have hesitated. 

Then again, not too long ago Bones would have asked outright instead of trying to slowly coax them into this conversation. Maybe he wouldn’t have needed to ask at all. Had things changed so much, even between them? 

With a sigh, Jim explained, “One year older than he ever got to be.” And ok, maybe he shouldn’t have had those few drinks before Bones showed up, not on an empty stomach-- because now that he’d started it felt like he couldn’t _stop_ and before he knew it he was giving voice to some of the disparaging thoughts swirling around in his head and saying: “He joined Starfleet because… he believed in it. I joined on a _dare.”_

“You joined,” Bones corrected, ducking his head to catch Jim’s eye, “to see if you could live up to him. You spent all this time trying to be George Kirk, and now… you’re wondering just what it means to be Jim, why you’re out here--” 

Jim got the feeling that Bones had more he wanted to say-- _not now, please, not now_ \-- but whatever he read in Jim’s expression must have stopped him. Instead, he sighed softly and raised his glass once more. 

“To perfect eyesight and a full head of hair.” 

Well, Jim could drink to that, at least. 

* * *

Yorktown was bright and beautiful and innovative and Jim found he had very little desire to explore any of it. Not that he got much of a chance, anyway. 

Maybe he did have a hero complex. Maybe he did have some ingrained desire to save everyone who so much as looked like they needed his help. 

Maybe he should have thought about that _before_ he got half of his crew killed. 

He saved everyone he could. It wasn’t enough. 

His ship was lost. His crew was decimated. Edison was defeated. Yorktown was saved. 

Adrenaline carried him through the entirety of it all, and then a little further just because it could, his body refusing to accept that he was done fighting. He’d be thankful for it if he wasn’t so goddamn tired.

* * *

It hit him, after. 

It hit him, after Spock was safely atop a gurney being wheeled quickly away to Yorktown Medical.

It hit him, after he was reunited with the other members of the bridge crew and they were ushered away to receive treatment of their own. 

After he’d seen to the survivors. 

Only then did he realize that he couldn’t really breathe. 

* * *

He can’t breathe. 

He can’t breathe. 

He can’t fucking _breathe._

He stopped in his tracks.

“I cauterized the wound in the field,” Bones continued on, not noticing that Jim had stopped walking beside him as he filled the Yorktown medical staff in on Spock’s condition while they wheeled him to emergency treatment. “But it reopened a few hours later. He’ll need a transfusion and regenerative therapy to repair the tissue damage--” 

Jim stayed where he was, hand on his chest. He rubbed at his breastbone, and he willed his lungs to take in air. A spike of panic shot through him as the organs refused to cooperate, continuing the pattern of shallow, much too rapid gasps that increased with each passing moment. 

He was going to hyperventilate. 

It wasn’t as though this was coming out of left field; the last 48 hours were a whirlwind of trauma for everyone involved-- and definitely brought back some bad memories-- but now? It was hitting him out of the blue during a moment of downtime and he was paralyzed by it. 

He was going to collapse soon if he didn’t do something about it. 

He called out for Bones. 

The doctor didn’t respond the first time, and Jim tried again receiving a, “He’s going to be fine, Jim,” in reply. 

“ _Len_ ,” he tried again, voice trembling in time with his hands, knowing even through the hazy fog sweeping over his thoughts that the use of his actual name would get his friend’s attention. “I think there’s something wrong.” 

Bones was on him in an instant, hands hovering with uncertainty over his biceps until Jim nodded and he carefully grasped his arms. The doctor led them to a nearby bench and guided Jim down onto it as his breathing became shallower and the trembling in his limbs increased tenfold. 

“Talk to me,” Bones instructed calmly, but in a firm tone. “Tell me what’s going on.” 

“I can’t--” Jim began, choking on a cough as a too shallow breath hit the back of his throat, “I can’t breathe.” 

“Okay,” Bones murmured, as he pressed the pads of his fingers into Jim’s neck. “Your pulse is racing-- look at me, kid.” 

Jim did his best to obey, but he couldn’t focus on anything; his eyes darted from one thing to the next wildly, Bones’ blue shirt in the foreground of all else but his face blurry and distorted as Jim fought against his body to do what Bones asked. Cautiously, Bones’ thumbs pressed against his face, opening his eyes slightly; he hissed at the pressure against the bruising there. 

“You’re going into shock,” Bones informed him as he began quickly maneuvering Jim’s arms out of his survival jacket. “We need to get you horizontal, kid--” 

Jim shook his head as best he could; it felt like a heavy weight, unbalanced and unsteady on his neck. 

“Jim, don’t argue with me on this--”

“‘M not,” Jim choked out. “But I’m gonna--”

Twisting away as best he could, he vomited onto the ground, his aching body protesting the strain as he sputtered and coughed up bile and saliva. Bones’ hand shifted to his back, rubbing small circles against Jim’s sweaty shoulders through the thin black material of his undershirt. 

“You’re alright,” Bones soothed, “Jim-- I need you to lie down, okay?” 

Jim did his best to comply, clumsily hauling his legs up onto the bench and leaning back. Bones supported him as he reclined, hastily shoving the wadded up jacket under his head and putting pressure on Jim’s shoulder until he turned onto his side, shaking. 

“What do I do next?” he gasped out, looking in Bones’ general direction. 

“Try to slow your breathing down,” Bones instructed. “In… out. Good, in.... out… keep doing that,” he said before turning to face the hospital doors and calling, “Can I get some help out here?” 

* * *

Later, Jim would realize what a testament it was to how far he’d come that when he noticed the sudden, heightened anxiety-- the clammy, sweaty skin, shortness of breath, and overwhelming sensation of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ \-- his first reaction was to ask for help. 

Later, he’d shrug off Bones’ heartfelt and sincere, “I’m proud of you, kid,” and do his best to forget the whole thing had ever happened. 

Later, he wouldn’t remember much of it anyway. 

* * *

Hypoglycemia and shock, they told him; blood pressure and blood sugar dropping rapidly and sending him spiraling. He was in a dull grey hospital room overlooking the waterway, the ruins of the Franklin just visible beyond the windowpane if he turned his head enough. 

He tried not to. 

Physically, he felt a bit better. The fractures to his orbital bone had been healed and his ribs were only a little sore thanks to a few rounds of regen while he’d been out. It was the bone-deep tiredness, the muscle binding aches that lingered. He powered through the twinges of pain and sat up, submitted quietly to the tests they subjected him to. 

After a few hours, when he was cleared for release and just tugging on his left shoe-- eager for a shower and a change of clothes-- there was a soft knock at the door. 

“Come in,” he called as he stood, slinging his blue and gold jacket back over his shoulders reluctantly. 

The door retracted and Uhura entered, having changed from her own uniform into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, both marked with ‘Yorktown Medical Center’ in small white lettering. Her damp hair was tossed up into a ponytail, and she smiled softly when she saw him. She looked tired but no worse for wear, and Jim was thankful. 

He was moving before he had really decided to, relief at seeing her whole and unharmed, exhausted but _safe_ , driving him forward. He strode across the room to her with open arms and she met him in the middle. He felt her shuddering in his hold and held her tighter. For a few moments, they stood in silence.

Eventually, she said, “I’m glad you’re okay.” 

He wasn’t. Not really; and he knew she wasn’t either. But they were alive.

“You too,” he murmured back, releasing her with a final, gentle squeeze. “What are you doing here?” 

“I haven’t left yet,” she replied lightly. “They gave me a pretty thorough once over and then once that was done and I was cleared they told us that Spock was out of surgery, so I went to see how he was doing-- he’s fine, by the way, should be released in two days. Now I’m here to see you.” 

Jim was relieved to hear a report on Spock, and some of the tension left his shoulders. “That’s good. I’m glad he’s okay. Have you seen--” 

“Leonard is fine, too. He finally let someone drag him off to be checked over, should be back any minute.” Laying a hand on his arm, she added softly: “Everyone’s okay, Jim. Everyone that was admitted had minor injuries… Spock was the worst, and he’s going to be fine.” 

Jim flashed a small smile at her, and softly said, “Thank you.” 

But of course… everyone wasn’t okay. The crew was injured, likely traumatized, and definitely suffering from exhaustion, dehydration, maybe more. 

Hell, most of them were dead. 

And if he had just--

Voices in the hallway broke his train of thought, and he looked up to see Bones enter on the heels of another doctor in a white coat. Bones was dressed in the light blue scrubs of the facility, hair in disarray as it had clearly been recently washed but not restyled. Apparently, the crew members who had been in decent shape physically were given time to shower and a change of clothes; Jim was still in his survival suit. He felt grimy, tacky with sweat and dirt. 

“I would like to examine him,” Bones was saying, “before you--” 

“Captain Kirk,” the other man said. He had told Jim his name earlier, but Jim hadn’t been paying much attention. Extending the PADD he held towards Jim with a stylus, he continued, “Your discharge papers.” 

Jim looked from the tablet to Bones questioningly. 

Bones met his eye and said, “I want to examine you myself before you sign anything. Just to be sure.” 

Jim sighed quietly, the barest exhalation through his nose. More examinations. More medical treatment. More time in this hospital.

But Bones needed to do this; he needed to be useful, to confirm for himself that Jim was well and whole and going to be okay, despite the fact that his injuries had been minimal in comparison to some of the scrapes he had found himself in in the past. 

And Jim needed his friend. 

So with a nod, he agreed, “Okay with me.” Addressing the doctor still holding the PADD expectantly, he asked, “Would that be alright?” 

With a tight smile, the man replied, “Of course, Captain Kirk,” and excused himself from the room. 

Alone with his CMO and his communications chief, Jim asked, “Have either of you slept at all?” 

They responded simultaneously, Uhura with, “I’m alright” and Bones with, “Once you’re released they’re going to show us our temporary lodgings. I’ll sleep then.” 

Jim nodded in acceptance and reseated himself on the edge of the bed. Bones donned some gloves and retrieved a tricorder from the nearby equipment station. 

The examination was quick. His injuries had been healed, for the most part, and his chart confirmed that. He answered the questions he was asked-- no, he wasn’t in a lot of pain. No, he didn’t feel lightheaded. No, he wasn’t dizzy. Just tired… he seemed to be saying that a lot, lately-- until Bones was satisfied and Uhura was smirking knowingly in the corner. 

Jim signed off on his discharge papers, and a small, squeaky young man escorted them to a waiting vehicle. The ride to the nearby hotel that would be allowing them residence until a more permanent solution was found-- likely some ‘fleet issue apartments in the area-- was brief. 

The staff were accommodating and nearly tripping over themselves to be of service, no doubt instructed to provide “only the best” for the survivors. Jim was given a clean t-shirt, white and simple, and newly purchased sweatpants; they didn’t say ‘Yorktown Medical’ but they did still have a tag attached, and were two sizes too big. No matter; anything would be better than the survival suit. 

Jim and Bones walked Nyota to her door, seeing her safely inside with a “Comm if you need anything,” before continuing on towards their own respective rooms. Jim was grateful they were all on the same floor, at least. He wanted to be close to his people. 

Stopping by his own door, he turned to face Bones. 

“I’ll see you later?” he half asked, already suspecting the answer and scanning his keycard. 

Bones nodded, clapping him on the shoulder. “Get some rest. We’ll talk when we’ve both had some sleep.” 

The doctor turned to his own room, but on an impulse, Jim stopped him. “Bones?” 

“Yeah, kid?”

Jim hesitated, swallowing hard before he spoke again. “I’m glad you’re ok.” 

Bones smiled a little, gaze softening as he replied, “Same to you, kid. Get some shut-eye.” 

Jim nodded and entered his room. The door closed behind him with a hiss, and he glanced around. It was a nice room, a big bed in the center, desk off to one side, a few armchairs, a balcony. Most importantly: a shower. 

Peeling off his grimy uniform, he left it in a heap on the floor and eased himself into the stall. The hotel offered real water showers for an upcharge, and at that moment, he didn’t care about the cost. Besides, he was pretty sure Starfleet was footing the bill, and if they wanted to chew him out later over it, that was fine by him. He stood under the warm flow for as long as he could before the exhaustion hit him and he felt his energy truly lagging. 

Leaving the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, he made his way back to the main room and changed into the t-shirt and sweats. They were soft and clean, and that was all he cared about. He cinched the drawstring at the waist tighter, keeping them just above his hips, and tied it off snugly. 

He didn’t bother to towel dry his hair, and it fell limply into his eyes. 

He needed a haircut. 

He needed food.

He needed sleep. 

He wanted to scream. 

He lowered himself slowly onto the bed, absolutely exhausted but knowing before his head hit the pillow that he wouldn’t be able to sleep much, if at all. 

He curled up on his side, hair dampening the pillow and making him shiver, and stared out the window as the sky changed from blue to grey to black.

The silence was overwhelming, and the names of his crew-- names of people he would never see again-- filled his mind. That gut-wrenching feeling of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ persisted. 

He didn’t sleep at all.

* * *

It had been hard for a while, Jim thought dimly as he lay staring out the window at the artificial light change Yorktown provided to simulate daybreak. 

Hard to motivate himself to get up and go about his day. 

Hard to smile effortlessly, like he once had. 

Hard to sleep. 

Hard to eat. 

Hard to be. 

But people depended on him. Even now, with everything in such disarray, he would be the one they looked to; for answers… or guidance… or somewhere to place the blame.

_My fault, my fault, my fault---_

Forcing that thought from his mind, Jim hoisted himself up from his prone position on the bed and ordered room service-- toast and orange juice. He didn’t think he could stomach much else. 

When the knock on his door came a short while later, he opened it reluctantly expecting the meager amount of food he had requested, and saw Bones standing in the threshold instead. Jim stepped aside and waved him in before calling down to the kitchen and amending his order, adding oatmeal, extra toast, and some sausage for the doctor, as well as juice. 

Bones seated himself in one of the armchairs as Jim trailed behind, shoving one hand into the pocket of the sweatpants loose around his hips and scratching his neck with the other.

“How’d you sleep?” Bones asked, leaning forward and perching his elbows on his knees. 

Jim shrugged. “Not great.” 

Bones raised an eyebrow at him. “Does ‘not great’ mean ‘not at all’? You look wiped out-- and your bed’s still made.” 

Jim smirked, lowering himself into the other chair. “What can I say,” he replied. “Got a lot on my mind.” 

Bones nodded understandingly. “I hear you. Any word from the brass?” 

Jim shook his head, shoving his too long hair back as he did so. “Nothing yet. I assume they’re giving us a bit of time to--” _What, regroup? Recover? Mourn?_ “-- gather our thoughts before they bombard us with briefings. Heard from anyone else?” 

Bones dragged a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Got an update on Spock; since the surgery went so well they expect he’ll be released tomorrow. Ran into Scotty, figured out which rooms he and Chekov are in. Around the corner, first three doors on the left.” 

Jim took comfort in knowing that they, too, would be close at hand. He wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of being separated from them just yet. 

“Sulu’s staying with his husband in his apartment, but Chekov has the address.” 

At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and Jim rose to answer even as Bones asked, “Expecting more company?” 

Jim chuckled. “Just food. Hope you’re hungry.” 

Jim took the tray from the room service delivery staff member-- taking a mental note of their name tag so he could add a tip to his statement later-- and returned to the seating area with it. 

“You kidding?” Bones replied with a scoff, “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.” 

“Good,” Jim answered, plucking up a piece of dry toast from the assortment and tearing off a corner, chewing slowly. 

Bones took the oatmeal, knowing Jim didn’t typically eat it, and added cinnamon liberally over the top. Jim pretended not to notice the concerned look the doctor shot him as he continued nibbling at the bread, leaning back in his chair and taking his time with it. Bones knew better than anyone that after big things happened, it took a while for his stomach to settle.

Jim called it an interesting quirk; Bones called it a trauma response. To each their own. 

He watched as the other man poured them each a tall glass of orange juice, handing one directly to Jim with a pointed look rather than placing it on the small table in front of him. Jim rolled his eyes and obligingly took a sip before setting it down, tearing another small corner from his toast. 

“Jim--”

“So I was thinking I’d go visit Spock, check in with him,” Jim interrupted, staring firmly ahead. 

_Not now, Bones. Please, not now._

Bones sighed heavily where he sat. 

“I’m sure he’d appreciate that. Mind if I tag along?” 

Jim shrugged. “Sure. First things first, though--” he shifted in his seat. “I betcha I can get Starfleet to issue us some credits. I don’t want to run all around the city in these,” he finished, plucking at the leg of the sweats. 

Bones smiled broadly at him, sounded relieved when he said, “Thank god for your vanity, kid.” 

* * *

Jim’s meager breakfast sat like lead in his stomach as they made their way toward the hospital, him in newly purchased jeans and a pale blue short-sleeved shirt, and Bones beside him in khakis and a button-down. 

A quick call in to HQ had provided them-- the survivors, Christ he was sick of that word-- early distribution of some “reparations”, as the ‘fleet was calling it, and they had immediately rectified their lack of clothing by purchasing a few pairs of pants, a few shirts, new shoes, and new undergarments each. The same call that allowed them to do so was wrapped up with a not so subtle, “And Kirk? We’ll be needing your statement soon.”

He tried to force that thought aside as the hospital loomed ahead, casting shadows over their path. The occasional click of a nearby camera prickled at the edge of his senses, but he couldn’t be bothered to seek it out and risk starting an impromptu interview. Let them take their holos; he was used to it by now, years of being Starfleet’s poster child for success and family legacy combined with his-- as the crew called it-- hero complex had led to more than one sensationalized headline regarding his whereabouts and goings-on. He could just see this one, now: “Captain James Kirk Visits Yorktown Medical Following Enterprise Tragedy ”. _Great._

He entered the building-- tall, white, and sterile-- and allowed Bones to take the lead. His turf, his rules, as the saying went. He stayed silently at the doctor’s side as his CMO flashed some credentials and requested access to Spock’s updated charts and the locations of various other crew members still being treated. 

Bones passed along Spock’s room number, and Jim politely took his leave, making his way down the twisting hallways and following the increasing numbers on the doors until he hit 157. 

He rapped his knuckles lightly on the door, knowing Spock would hear, and was not disappointed. 

“Enter,” came the call from within, and Jim made his way inside. He couldn’t help the rush of relief that flooded him upon seeing his first officer sitting upright and looking immensely better than he had in the last several days. Spock’s color was much better, and his skin had lost the clammy sheen and grey pallor that had been present when Jim had last seen him. 

Jim walked over to the bedside, drawing up a chair and sinking gracelessly into it as he said, “I thought Uhura might be here.” 

“She is visiting Sulu in the cafeteria,” Spock replied evenly. “She was most concerned about his well-being, though she will not yet tell me why.” After a pause, he continued, “I am not certain I wish to know.” 

Jim nodded; he didn’t know yet what the crew had endured during their separation, but he knew that they were shaken badly by it. He could relate. 

“Have you given a report yet?” Jim asked quietly, scrubbing a hand over his eyelids tiredly. 

Spock shifted on the bed. “No. The admiralty has been instructed to await my release for requesting my statement.” Jim nodded again, in acknowledgement. “Is--” Spock began, trailing off momentarily before continuing: “What would you like me to say, Captain?” 

Jim smiled softly, the corners of his lips quirking upward for an instant. Time was Spock would have made his report already, despite his injuries. He would have filed it, reviewed it with the admiralty, all without consulting Jim consequences be damned. How far they’d come...

“The truth, Spock,” Jim replied flatly. “We did everything we could. This--” he sighed, gaze drifting to the ground before him. “This would have happened no matter what we did, I think.” 

_Would it? Maybe there was something, something he wasn’t seeing._

He could feel Spock watching him, and made an effort to smile. It felt awkward, and given Spock’s blank stare in response, he could only imagine that it fell pathetically short of convincing. 

“Jim,” Spock prompted hesitantly, “we did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong.” 

Jim nodded again, rubbing his palms together. “I know.” 

_I did everything wrong, I should have seen this coming, my fault, my fault--_

“You followed protocol to the letter. You reacted quickly and with caution-- no one could have foreseen--” 

“I know, Spock,” Jim interrupted gently. “And we’re going to be fine. They can’t fault us for this… we just have to get through the next little bit here and figure out what’s next.” 

A long silence stretched between them, but it was not uncomfortable. Jim picked idly at a hangnail as his thoughts drifted. It was a relief to have things more or less resolved between him and Spock, but a residual awkwardness still hung in the air, months of avoidance and careful tiptoeing around each other leaving their mark. 

Finally, he broke the silence. “Bones said they might spring you loose tomorrow?” 

Spock nodded. “The surgery proceeded without incident, and I am nearly healed. They simply wish to observe the site for any irritation or resistance to final regeneration treatments before releasing me.” 

“That’s good,” Jim replied. “I’m glad you’re alright.” He’d been saying that a lot the past few days. Every time he bumped into a member of his crew it felt like his lungs would collapse from the relief of seeing them. 

“And I, you. Have you been seen to?” 

“Yeah,” Jim shrugged off his concern. “I’m alright. Bumps and bruises, nothing major.” 

Spock raised an eyebrow lightly. “So I see.” At Jim’s questioning look, he continued, “You have a black eye.” 

Jim raised a hand to prod lightly at the skin beneath his eyes and found that the right gave a twinge of pain. 

“Huh… hadn’t noticed.” 

He hadn’t bothered looking in a mirror in… days? Weeks? It had been a while. He had grown tired of seeing the same uniform on the same figure, watching his expression grow a little more despondent and his shoulders sag a little more with each passing month. Eventually, he had just… stopped looking. 

“Captain,” Spock said, carefully, and Jim felt his shoulders tighten with tension. “Are you--” 

Whatever he was about to say was cut short by Bones’ arrival as he entered without so much as a cursory tap on the door and began asking questions about Spock’s well-being. 

Jim rose from his spot by the bed and moved out of the way, calling quietly, “I’m going to go check in on the others. It’s good to see you, Spock. Glad you’re alright,” as he made his way out of the room. 

He could feel Spock’s eyes on him until the door closed behind him. 

* * *

By the time Jim made it back to his room, he was exhausted. He’d made a point to visit every crew member still in the hospital, to take at least a few minutes to check in with them, offer comfort where he could, give what few answers he had when they asked why, and how, and what next? 

If only he knew. 

He gave a cursory glance at the room service menu, having foregone lunch in his effort to provide a touchstone for his people, but where there should have been gnawing hunger there was only churning nausea. 

He considered another long, hot shower. He debated brushing his teeth, washing his face… doing something to try and remove the grit and lingering awfulness of the past several days. 

In the end, he simply changed out of the jeans and draped them over one of the chairs, exchanging them for the same grey sweatpants he had worn before and forgoing a shirt altogether. 

He lowered himself onto the bed, laying on his side to stare out the window at the fading light of dusk. In the remaining glow, he could just make out his reflection, blurry and warped by the distance and the glass. 

He pulled a pillow over his head, and tried to sleep.

* * *

Jim had meant to sneak out unnoticed, find some decent coffee, drag himself back up to his room, and hope the caffeine would pull him through the day after yet another restless night. 

He had not planned on stumbling out the door, rubbing tiredly at his aching and burning eyes, and bodily colliding with his chief engineer. 

“Sorry, Scotty,” he cried softly, steadying the man with a bracing hand to the shoulder. “Didn’t see you there.” 

Unperturbed, Scotty grinned brightly in reply as he answered, “Never you mind, Captain, no harm done!” 

Jim returned the smile with an attempt at his own as his head gave a particularly nasty jolt of pain. Sleep deprivation always built up to a nasty headache; Jim was hoping to cut this one off with some much needed caffeine. 

Suddenly aware of his close proximity to Scotty-- and the fact that he hadn’t showered in what, two days? Three?-- he took a delicate step back. They both hovered in the hallway for a moment; Jim felt the other man’s eyes on him and distracted himself by shoving his hands deep into the pockets of the jeans he’d thrown on along with the t-shirt he’d snagged from the bag of clothes he’d purchased a few days back. Dimly he realized it was green. 

Had he grabbed a green shirt? He didn’t remember picking it out… maybe Bones had thrown it in when he wasn’t looking? Not that he didn’t like the shirt. It was a relatively nondescript thing, but he could have sworn he hadn’t picked up a green--

“Where are you off to, sir?” Scotty asked jovially, interrupting Jim’s thoughts. 

Jim blinked heavily. God, he was tired. His head throbbed. “Uh,” he began, clearing his throat lightly as his vision readjusted. “I was just going to go see about some coffee.” 

Jim knew from the pause that followed that Scotty could see that something was off. If he was being honest, Jim knew he was doing a piss poor job at hiding it. The world seemed too bright, too much, and his exhaustion addled brain was having a hell of a job keeping up. 

He’d stayed up half the night making lists of everything he had to do. Get a list of the casualties out of the Admiralty. Organize personal communiques to the families of the dead. Recommend posthumous commendations, for exemplary performance above and beyond the line of duty. Decline position of Vice-Admiral. 

He couldn’t abandon his people. Not now. Not when they needed him. 

“Well,” the brogue cut into his thoughts again, Scotty’s head ducked just so in a way that suggested he was trying to catch Jim’s focus. “Lucky you ran into me, then. I’m off for just the same reason, and I have it on good authority that the best coffee around isn’t far from here-- that is, if you don’t mind the company?” 

Jim shook his head lightly as he gestured for Scotty to lead the way. “Not at all. I appreciate the tip.” 

They walked along in comfortable silence. Jim was thankful that, out of everyone recuperating in close quarters, he’d run into the engineer. Of course he’d seen Bones since breakfast the other day; but the lines around the doctor’s eyes deepened with every dispirited peck Jim took at his food, and the not so subtle glances toward his still relatively unmussed bed did nothing for Jim’s mood. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to the intervention that was likely going to come the next time they had more than five minutes alone together. Spock, too, was far too perceptive for Jim’s sanity at the moment; if the Vulcan were not still recuperating in his own quarters, he would have asked outright what was wrong with Jim, and then would have proceeded to suggest any number of all-too reasonable solutions. And Uhura-- god, with how tired he was she probably wouldn’t even have to say anything, she’d just look at him and he’d lose it. 

Scotty was the man Jim needed right now. No questions. No comments about what had already happened, or what needed to happen next. No worrying glances or needling inquires. Just companionship. It was nice. 

As Jim paid for their drinks-- “My treat, I insist,”-- Scotty found a table. After a few minutes, and several long drinks of the rich, bitter brew, Scotty cleared his throat. 

“I, eh-- I was wondering--” he trailed off, clearly hesitant. 

Jim, feeling slightly more awake and a little less like his head was going to explode, raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?” 

Scotty fiddled with his mug, running his thumbs up the side as he wrapped his hands around the warm beverage. “I have a favor to ask, if it’s not too much trouble.” 

Jim reached across the table and nudged Scotty’s arm lightly. “Anything, Scotty, you know that. If I can do it, I will.” 

Scotty flashed him a smile, nodding as he did so. “It’s not for me, exactly. It’s Jaylah--” 

That Jim had not been expecting. He knew she had been put up in the same hotel, at least until their Yorktown housing came through for the duration of the rebuild-- one more thing to add to his list, he was sick of living in a damn box-- but he hadn’t seen or heard from her since they had arrived at Yorktown Medical.

Frowning in concern, he asked, “Is she ok?”

Scotty hurried to reassure him, nodding quickly and waving a hand to dismiss any thoughts to the contrary. “Oh, aye. She’s-- well, she’s as well as can be expected. I imagine Starfleet won’t be too pleased with the bill she’s racking up-- already broken two holoscreens… and the room service alone must be--”

“Scotty,” Jim interrupted gently, halting the tirade he was sure was coming. 

“Right, sorry,” Scotty apologized brusquely. Meeting Jim’s eye and taking a deep breath he said, “I was hoping you’d put in a word for her with HQ.” 

Jim’s brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Put in a good-- she wants to enlist?” 

“Well,” Scotty drawled, lifting his shoulder in a half shrug,“I think so? We were talking it over and she seemed interested in the idea. There’s-- some honor in it for her, I think, in aligning with the people who saved her, in learning to save others the same way.” He smiled fondly. “That’s what she’s most excited for, I think… the chance te help people, the way we were able to help her.” 

Jim felt a dull pain behind his ribs as he thought distantly of all the people he hadn’t been able to save. Pushing down those thoughts, he forced a smile onto his face as he replied, “Of course I’ll vouch for her. Hell,” he continued as he raised his mug to his lips, “she’s more qualified than half the cadets I knew at the academy, and twice as smart.” 

Scotty snorted a laugh as he raised his own mug in acknowledgment. “Don’t tell her that. We’ll never hear the end of it.” 

Jim smirked against the rim of his drink. “Duly noted.” 

* * *

When he returned to his room, Jim set to work on his ever growing to-do list. He drafted reports. He and Spock sent messages back and forth to each other, exchanging information as they worked on their respective timelines of events. He checked in with the crew and attended meetings as required. Hypocritically, he ensured Bones took care of himself, was sleeping and eating enough. 

Jim ate and slept when he could, and worked when he couldn’t. Usually, the latter won out. He wasn’t entirely sure that humans were meant to exist on so much coffee and so little rest, but if his body didn’t want to sleep there wasn’t much he could do about it. More than once, he’d awoken slumped over his tiny desk with his cheek smashed against the PADD, but as soon as he relocated to the bed he’d be wide awake again, plagued by thoughts of the ship and the screams of the dead. 

The rest of his people still needed him, he reminded himself. They depended on him to keep doing his job, ship or no ship-- and to do it well. Damage control fell to him. The duty was his: tell the story for those who couldn’t, and he set himself to it as best he could, ignoring the steadily increasing tightness in his chest. 

The days passed slowly, and the nights dragged on. He moved ever forward.

* * *

_I regret to inform you that I will be declining the position of Vice Admiral at this time in favor of honoring my commitment to the continuing mission of the U.S.S Enterprise upon her rechristening in several months time._

_I appreciate the opportunity, and thank you for your time._

_Sincerely,_

_Captain James T. Kirk_

* * *

Jim hoped a few drinks might help to pull him out of the slump he’d been in, or at least loosen him up enough to get some decent sleep for once. He’d buried himself in work the last several days, holing up in his room with paperwork and confidential calls to Starfleet or running off to meetings with the higher-ups based on Yorktown as they tried to clear up the latest clusterfuck and figure out the next steps. 

They’d all been busy-- Bones had taken forty-eight hours required leave before he began pulling double duty doing follow up care for the Enterprise crew, mostly minor treatments for dehydration and exhaustion but there’d been a healthy dose of trauma care in the mix. 

Yorktown Medical, efficient and fully staffed as ever, had taken charge of the survivors’ care. Their administration had already strong-armed the expedited approval of additional psychiatric professionals in order to accommodate demand, but in the meantime, the crew knew Bones and trusted him. Most were in good spirits, but Bones has reluctantly told him that more than one had broken down in tears over the last several days. Bones was doing his best, but he was more a physician than a psychiatrist, and it was draining for him to be burning both ends of the candle. 

Needless to say, with everyone being so busy he’d hardly had time to spend with Jim, and while he’d been sure to check up on the captain when he could, there hadn’t really been any time to decompress. Which brought them to tonight; Bones had asked if Jim was free for a drink, and Jim desperately needed some down time so he agreed.

“You made good time,” Jim quipped as he slung his jacket onto his arms and readjusted the sleeves as it settled over his shoulders. “You takin’ me somewhere nice, or will this work?” he asked, gesturing to his casual attire. 

Bones sized him up, giving a half-hearted shrug as he replied, “I suppose that’ll do.” With a nod towards Jim’s eye, still marred by the residual bruising from Krall’s attack, he continued, “Not sure about that though. It’s no five-star establishment we’re going to, but I don’t think they’d appreciate lowlifes and hoodlums slumming around.” 

Jim snorted a laugh as he let his door close behind him and they started walking. “Damn, guess we’ll just have to find a dive bar somewhere and hope for the best.” 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Bones carefully cataloging Jim’s mood through subtle side glances as they made their way out of the building and into the artificial sunlight and Jim carefully ignoring him doing it. Jim squinted against the brightness, and knew that the wince on his face probably gave away the headache he was battling. He’d caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he left-- just a quick glance but more than enough to let him know he looked like hell. There were thin lines of exhaustion around his eyes and mouth, nearly camouflaged by the lingering swelling around his right eye but not quite; he still wasn’t sleeping well. 

Jim had always been good at compartmentalizing, pushing aside his own thoughts and feelings so long as there was something that needed doing-- and he was a damn good actor when he wanted to be-- but Bones had learned the ins and outs of reading him ages ago. The doctor amiably nudged Jim with his shoulder, waiting until he refocused before he asked, “How’s it going? Getting everything sorted out with the brass?” 

Jim nodded beside him, a faint smile pulling his lips up at the corners. “Working on it. I uh-- I turned down the Vice Admiral position.” 

Bones turned to look at him, raising a brow in question. “Were you seriously considering that?” 

Bones had found out about the position by chance when he’d caught sight of a transmission on Jim’s PADD one evening. Jim had confessed that an offer was on the table, but that it was still very much up in the air at the time. Bones had brushed it off, assuming that Jim was going to do the same; he had probably forgotten all about it, but it had lingered at the back of Jim’s mind.

Jim shrugged with a hum. “I toyed with the idea but--” 

“But,” Bones finished for him, fond exasperation in his tone, “you have to see what else is out there in that godforsaken void.”

Jim laughed. “Eloquent as always, Bones. But yeah, I’m going to finish what we started. Two more years on this tour--”

“Two more--” Bones sputtered as they rounded a corner, passing yet another perfectly good bar that was not, apparently, their intended location. “You didn’t even try to get our time out here reduced?”

“Why would I get it reduced?” Jim cried indignantly, lightly whacking him on the arm. “Bones, we know our way through the nebula now! Can you imagine what we’ll find?” 

Bones rolled his eyes, counting off on his fingers: “Alien despots hell-bent on killing us? Deadly space-borne viruses and bacteria? Incomprehensible cosmic anomalies that could wipe us out in an instant?” 

“It’s gonna be so much fun,” Jim cut off his tirade as they turned the final corner. Curiosity finally getting the better of him, he asked, “By the way, where are we going? I thought we were going to get a drink?” 

“I know you told me to keep it under wraps,” Bones said placatingly as he glanced at Jim from the corner of his eye, trying to gauge his reaction, “but uh--”

The raucous cry of “Happy birthday!” erupted from the room ahead, and-- turning to face the crew-- Jim forced his expression into a smile. 

With a mischievous quirk of the lips, Jim turned back to face Bones-- ignoring the way his skin was crawling with everyone’s eyes on him-- and murmured, “Mr. Sensitive?” He fully entered the room, Bones close behind, wanting nothing more than to turn around and leave. He thanked Scotty as the engineer jogged over to them both with drinks at the ready, and swallowed back the anxiety creeping up his throat. 

He fought to keep his face neutral as Bones raised a toast to him, and graciously accepted the praise from his crew. He gave a toast of his own to those they had lost, and to their fallen ship. And then he slipped into the crowd and did his best to play his part. 

He didn’t really do the party thing much anymore; Jim drank just enough to loosen up, comfortably buzzed but well in control-- not hard to do with nothing else in his stomach. One drink had him floating. 

More often than not, his gaze drifted to the framework of the new _Enterprise_ , silent and contemplative as the party hummed around him. In such close proximity with what was left of his crew, he couldn’t help but notice that everything that had happened-- was _still_ happening-- had changed them all. 

He hoped they’d all make it through this.

There weren’t many of them left. 

* * *

Over the next several days, Jim threw himself into his work with a vehemence that rivaled his first year at the academy. He rose early-- he didn’t wake, because he barely slept-- and continued working long into the night. He didn’t bother putting in his contacts, and the bridge of his nose was likely permanently indented from the sheer number of hours he spent in his glasses. His eyes ached most of the time; his prescription was likely outdated. He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

On the first day, he managed to acquire a list of crew that had been accounted for upon their return to Yorktown, and from there to cross-reference the ship’s manifest and compile a list of the casualties-- and fuck, it was a _long_ list. 

The second day, he was able to issue his recommendations to the admiralty for posthumous commendations and for honors for exemplary performance above and beyond the line of duty for Sulu, Uhura, and several of the others who had made it. 

The third day, he received the notice that their temporary housing had been approved and that they could begin moving in in six days time, with a form for roommate requests or single-living applications. He sent a crew wide memo with the pertaining information and spends the afternoon forwarding on the various responses as the crew reply with their preferred housemates or lack thereof. 

When he received a private message from Bones that simply read _Roomies again?_ he hesitated only briefly before replying: _You got it_ and filing the request himself. Similar to the extra evaluation at Yorktown Medical prior to Jim’s release, he knew that Bones would feel better about things if Jim was in close proximity and he could keep an eye on him. Truth be told, the idea of having someone around was appealing to Jim as well, though he didn’t appreciate the coddling or the notion that he needed babysitting. 

But what his crew wanted they would have, if it was at all within his power. He owed them that much, at least. 

The fourth day his exhaustion finally caught up with him, and a vicious migraine that threatened to render his head shrapnel laid him out in bed the entire day, useless and pathetic. 

It was on the fifth day, as Jim ventured out of his room to replenish his diminishing stock of ration bars, that he ran into Sulu. 

* * *

Jim heard him before he saw him, the helmsman calling out, “Captain!” and jogging lightly to catch up with Jim as he made his way towards the nearest shops. 

“Sulu,” he greeted, slowing his pace and turning to face the other man. “How are you?” 

Sulu’s grin faltered, shifting to something brittle and thin and Jim’s stomach clenched. “I’ve-- I’ve been better, but… I’m alright.” 

Jim swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as he nodded. “That’s good. Are you--?” Jim gestured vaguely, not entirely sure what he had been about to ask. 

“I’ll be ok,” Sulu supplied, a little too quickly. “It’s just-- you know.” 

Jim did know. He’d read Sulu’s report, and Uhura’s, and everyone else’s. He knows every detail of how his crew had been taken, escape pods plucked from the sky like insects, one by one. How they had been locked up, tortured, killed in front of each other--

“--ight, sir?” Sulu’s voice broke through Jim’s train of thought, and Jim realized that he must have spoken more than once. 

“Sorry,” Jim apologized, shaking his head. “Sorry, yes-- I-- I can only imagine.” 

Sulu eyed him suspiciously as Jim plastered a smile across his face. “Are you alright, sir?” 

Jim broadened the smile, stiff and insincere, clapping a hand on Sulu’s shoulder. “I’m fine, Mr. Sulu. Don’t you worry about me.” 

* * *

Jim knew, after several long minutes unable to draw a full, deep breath, his hands trembling where they clutched at his pillow, that he was having an anxiety attack. 

Hell of a way to start a morning. 

Normally, he would be able to nip it in the bud. At the very least, he’d be able to power through it on sheer force of will alone and get himself under control enough to haul his ass out of bed, into the shower, and on to some semblance of being okay enough to face the day. 

He knew the breathing exercises, how to rationalize himself away from panic and back towards logic. Following the various stints he’d done in mandatory therapy sessions-- and more than a few embarrassing incidents that Bones had borne witness to-- Jim was practically a master at talking himself off of a ledge. 

But he was so goddamn tired. 

He didn’t have the energy to try to calm the thoughts racing around his mind, to try to force his lungs to cooperate with a more steady rhythm, to fight the pounding in his head or the shaking in his arms… so he didn’t. 

It would pass on its own, in time. 

Of _course_ that was when someone knocked on his door. 

With a fresh rush of panic, he forced himself to sit upright, listening carefully for a sign as to who might be waiting for him in the hallway. Maybe if he didn’t answer, they’d go away.

No such luck. 

The knock came again, and Jim stumbled to his feet to answer it, swaying dangerously as he did so. He waited a moment for the room to stabilize, hearing the familiar voice of his first officer calling, “Jim?”

Jim turned on his heel to move to the door, only to hit the bed frame with his toe. With a muffled curse, he limped his way through the room grimacing against the pain in his foot. He took a moment to compose himself, letting the pain fade to a dull throb before he opened the door. 

“Hey,” he rasped out, shuffling to the side to allow Spock to enter. “Sorry, just… stubbed my toe on the bed frame. I-- was-- am I expecting you?” 

Spock nodded his thanks and slipped past Jim into the room, taking in the bed, still made on one side but sheets mussed on the other with a disapproving tilt of the eyebrow. Jim followed his gaze around the non-descript room. It was a far cry from their quarters aboard the ship, Spock’s colorful and decorated with tapestries, kept warm and filled with personal comforts-- illogical though they may be-- and his own slowly but surely filled with trinkets and personal belongings he picked up along the way: a place he felt at home. 

He felt a pang at the reminder of the loss they had all suffered, but pushed it aside. 

“No,” Spock replied in response to Jim’s inquiry. “I apologize if I am intruding. It occurred to me that the coming days will be taxing; I had thought it might be prudent if we could discuss the next steps together.”

Jim stood silently for a moment, the words taking far too long to break through the fog of his mind, before he mustered up a smile and responded, “Yes-- yeah, of course we can-- uh-- take a seat.” 

Spock seated himself where Jim had indicated, a chair near the window of the room. Jim lowered himself into the identical chair opposite, and gestured for him to proceed. 

“What are you thinking?” he asked, gaze fixed on his first officer as he ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to smooth the strands into submission. Spock watched his movements carefully, and Jim knew he probably noticed the slight tremble in his hands as he did so. 

Slowly, Spock continued. “We have already agreed that the best course of action would be to simply inform the admiralty of the truth of what occurred. In order to do so,” he hesitated, searching Jim’s face before he finished, “I believe it would be beneficial to review the ship’s record-- whatever may be salvaged of it, that is. As such, I would like to request permission to petition to review the data logs.” 

Jim nodded absently, folding his hands together as he leaned back. “Do we have access to those yet?” 

Spock shook his head. “Not currently, but a delegation is already being selected to return to Altamid in order to recover whatever can be salvaged. I am not anticipating that they will retrieve much in the way of material goods, but following their investigation we should be allowed access to the transmissions should the admiralty agree.” 

Jim’s gaze met Spock’s as he pursed his lips in thought. “They’re moving quickly on this, aren’t they?” 

“They have yet to release any information to the public, and Starfleet Command is hopeful that they will be able to reassure the public following the loss of so many officers that we acted to the best of our abilities.” 

Jim scoffed as he picked absently at at a thumbnail. “Damage control,” he drawled. “This thing’s a PR nightmare and they know it.” 

Spock hesitated briefly, letting the comfortable silence ease both of their nerves momentarily and clearly bracing himself for something. Jim felt his shoulders tighten. After a breath, Spock continued. 

“There is also the matter of… the memorial.” 

Jim had been teetering on the brink of a panic attack since the second the Yorktown day had begun, and with Spock’s quiet reminder of all there was still left to do, all that had happened-- _everyone they had lost, all dead, all gone, all my fault--_ his last vestiges of fragile control shattered and he spiraled. 

His breath hitched in his chest as he choked on an inhale, exhaling too quickly and triggering a pattern of unsteady breathing that made his hands tremble all the harder as he hung his head and bit down on his lip, _hard._

Distantly, he heard Spock calling his name, and he mustered up his remaining energy to shake his head slightly, trying desperately to reassure his first officer that he was ok but he just needed a moment, just a moment to compose himself--

Who was he kidding? 

This wasn’t a momentary bout of anxiety. This wasn’t a one-off, this wasn’t going away. He hadn’t slept in days, hadn’t eaten a meal since-- he couldn’t remember when. He’d been off-kilter for months and exhausted for weeks and now, in the wake of perhaps the second-- maybe third-- greatest tragedy in his life--

And Jesus _Christ_ , who else could measure their life in _genocides_ ? Who else pondered their existence on a scale of which mass murder was the worst they’d been a part of? What normal person could rank their life by how many lives had been lost _this time?_

With a burst of hysterical laughter, a guttural huff that became a sob halfway through, Jim realized that he needed help because he couldn’t fucking _breathe_ , and he was so tired, so very tired…

He couldn’t think straight. The disconnect between his body and his brain seemed to be increasing with each passing second and he was _scared._

So loathe as he was to disturb the doctor-- who was no doubt dealing with his own issues in the aftermath of everything-- but knowing full well that Bones would kill him anyway if he found out about any of this from anyone else, he swallowed his pride. 

“Spock,” he panted, “can you--” he cut himself off with an unsteady exhale as he hooked his hands over the back of his neck, leaning forward and closing his eyes tightly against the sight of the floor spinning hazily as his vision blurred. “Can you call Bones, please?” 

God, he was sick of this. These stupid attacks seemed to be coming more and more frequently and he was damn near powerless to stop them when the struck. All he could do was wait them out and hope for the best while his chest caved in and suffocated him. 

But holy shit, Spock moved fast when he wanted to-- because the next thing Jim was aware of was the familiar feeling of Bones’ hands on him, one in his hair and the other wrapped securely around his wrist as the doctor felt for his pulse. 

He clutched blindly at Bones’ arm, the faint sound of the doctor’s voice barely discernible over the roaring in his ears. Bones’ hands never left him, one always anchoring him with a warm, heavy weight. 

And that was all the reassurance he needed to let the world fade to black around him. 

  
  


* * *

He’d wondered if Bones had sedated him until he came to and noticed the half-moon indentations in his palms from clenching his fists, tense even while unconscious. Anything Bones would have dared dose him with would have left him dead to the world and limp as a wet leaf for several hours. So no sedative, interesting. He was confused to find that his whole body was vaguely sore, a deep ache in his muscles leaving his limbs feeling like lead. 

The cannula was a surprise, a well. 

As soon as his eyes focused enough to recognize the sterile white and chrome features of Yorktown Medical, he knew he’d royally fucked up. 

Blinking blearily, he turned his head slightly, catching sight of Bones puttering around the room, fiddling with controls and checking displays-- and clearly aware that Jim was awake, if the tension in his shoulders was any indication. 

“Your blood sugar was in the basement,” Bones began in answer to Jim’s unvoiced questions. He sounded calmer than Jim had expected, but he stayed quiet all the same and let the doctor speak. “And you collapsed-- hypoglycemic shock.” Bones paused for a moment, perching himself on the left-hand side of Jim’s bed. “And when we started bringing your levels back up, you had a seizure.” Leveling Jim with his concerned gaze, he asked, “When’s the last time you ate, kid?” 

Jim blinked, thinking. When _had_ he last eaten? He’d picked at a few hors d'oeuvres at the birthday party Bones had thrown for him the week before, if only to absorb some of the alcohol in his system and prevent him from making an ass of himself. He’d been making sure to at least eat ration bars here and there, but--

Apparently, he’d been thinking for too long and had given Bones all the answer he needed. “I knew you were having some trouble, but--” 

“Bones--” 

“-- I didn’t realize it was this bad, Jim. Whenever I’ve seen you you’ve at least nibbled on something… I should have seen this coming.” 

_No, Bones, it’s not your fault. You haven’t done anything wrong, it’s ok, I promise. I’m sorry--_

Bones sighed tiredly, and Jim couldn’t help but take in the dark circles around his eyes. Bones had been running himself ragged, they all had. It wasn’t his fault that Jim couldn’t manage to take care of himself. He’d been trying, but food all sat too heavily in his stomach, and he was too tired to manage it half the time, anyway. He hadn’t realized he was burning more than he put in. He was startled out of his thoughts as Bones continued.

“I should have put a stop to this ages ago. I just figured-- especially after that first attack that you had when we made it back-- that if somethin’ was really _wrong,_ you’d tell me.” 

Jim’s chagrin must have shown on his face, because Bones backpedaled immediately. “No, kid-- that’s…” he sighed heavily, running a hand across his brow. “That came out wrong. Just-- I’m flying blind here. Tell me how to help you, Jim. Please.” 

Jim doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to burden his friends with his problems, deeply ingrained and born from years of fumbling along trying to keep himself alive when no one else gave enough of a damn to try. He doesn’t want to explain to Bones that even before this most recent catastrophe hit he’d been floundering, desperate for a hold to catch himself and unable to find one. He doesn’t want to tell him about the sleepless nights, or the days when he can do nothing _but_ sleep, of the times when he can barely stand to choke down the necessary nutrients to keep himself going or the anxiety that creeps up and clutches his lungs in an iron fist until he feels like he might die, alone and unable to breathe. But if Jim has learned one thing from the last several years, it’s to accept the help that’s offered to him. 

Bones has never let him down before, not if he could help it. Bones had braved space for him, had learned to fly so he could follow Jim into the black even when his hands shook and his stomach rebelled against him, had followed Jim through hell and back-- for godssakes, Bones had kept him alive. Bones had fought death and won… for Jim. 

And for Jim to shut him out, to disregard his health after that? 

It wasn’t fair to Bones. Not at all. 

So Jim swallowed his pride and told him everything. 

* * *

It’s Bones, ultimately, who starts Jim on the antidepressants. 

Bones who-- after making sure Jim was relatively stable, listening patiently while Jim talked himself hoarse and asking just enough questions to ascertain his mental state and thanking him for his honesty-- seemed to realize that this wasn’t simply grief but a long-coming breaking point. 

Bones who first uses words like “depression” and “post-traumatic stress disorder”, and perhaps the only person from whom Jim would accept the diagnosis. 

Jim was released from the hospital after observation once his blood sugar levels stabilized and he’d been prescribed an appetite stimulator in the hopes of helping him eat more regularly. They’d managed by some miracle to keep the crew from finding out what had happened-- with the exception of Spock who, of course, had been witness to the entire thing. Apparently Bones had already spoken to him and advised that he keep the incident private, and Spock had readily agreed. Spock had also been informed-- with Jim’s reluctant approval-- of Jim’s treatment plan; Bones insisted that having his second in the know could only be beneficial, both professionally and personally. Jim had argued that the fewer people were aware of how weak he was, the better. Bones hadn’t been thrilled with that description, and the dressing down Jim had gotten for that turn of phrase was not one he would easily forget. 

Jim had had several long talks with Bones, and Bones made sure to check in with him at least once a day to be sure he was eating and taking his meds. At one point, Jim had apologized to Bones for having to babysit him, something Jim felt no small amount of guilt over; he probably hadn’t anticipated that when he put in the request for joint housing, and he was probably regretting it now. But Bones had simply replied, “I’m your friend, kid… and your doctor. Comes with the territory.” 

The adjustment period was miserable. Days of headaches, nausea, and irritability wreaked havoc on his mood, though he did notice a decrease in anxiety overall. But while the anxiety attacks lessened, nothing else really did. He was still battling dark thoughts more often than he’d care to admit and the exhaustion was still weighing him down, though he had to concede it was definitely more mental than physical. 

After a few weeks of tweaking the dosages attempting to find something that would have the desired effect without causing a reaction, but which had little to no noticeable improvement on Jim’s overall mental well-being, Bones suggested that maybe Jim needed more help that Bones could give him. 

Bones had always been there for Jim in every way possible, friend, physician, confidant-- but they had agreed long ago that he should not be allowed to act as Jim’s therapist in any official capacity if only to maintain unquestionable integrity in Starfleet’s records should anyone ever question Jim’s competency to command.

Jim should have seen the conversation coming, all things considered. Bones had been sitting with him in companionable silence one evening, Jim picking at his food and barely keeping himself upright, head leaning heavily on his hand, when he broached the subject. 

“Jim,” Bones began hesitantly. “The higher-ups think-- and I do, too-- that you… that _we,_ all of us, really, should see somebody. About all this.” 

Jim had done the therapy thing before, here and there. Always at the behest of the ‘fleet-- after Nero, after Khan. He didn’t particularly enjoy it; didn’t like the idea of spilling his secrets to a stranger who had the deciding power over whether or not he was fit for duty and could take away everything he’d worked for with a single signed statement. Usually, he was fine dealing with things on his own. 

But nothing had shaken him up like this-- reached into his chest and clamped a vice around his lungs for days and weeks afterward-- the way this had. Not since Tarsus.

He was so tired-- not just physically, but mentally. He couldn’t focus, could hardly think without his mind taking dark turns and stealing the breath from his lungs. He was exhausted, and barely coping, and he knew it. 

So when Bones brought it up, all Jim could say in response was, “Okay.” 

* * *

The therapist he wound up seeing was a petite woman-- he had insisted on a woman-- named Dr. Holt, who was just beginning to go grey around the temples. She had brown eyes and a kind smile, and she reminded him of Hoshi Sato, in a way. 

Her office was small, but comfortable, painted a pastel shade of green with a large window overlooking a nearby park. He found himself staring out that window during his first appointment, unease coiling in his gut and making him fidget. 

After a long silence, she chimed in leadingly, “What would you like to talk about today, Jim?” 

After an even longer silence, he replied: “I don’t know,” and shame flooded him. 

Shame for wasting her time. 

Shame for being such a mess. 

Shame for what he had done and caused. 

Shame that he couldn’t even talk about it. 

They sat mostly in silence for the entirety of the session, Jim having several false starts as he tried to speak and then changed his mind at the last second. Through it all, she sat patiently, gaze hovering on him warmly for long stretches of time until he felt like he would scream from the weight of it, then turning slightly away to give him the illusion of privacy. Eventually, the hour was up. 

As Jim made to leave, he stopped with a hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, sincerely disappointed with himself. 

She tilted her head questioningly, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. “For what?” 

He swallowed thickly before replying, “For wasting your time.” 

After a pause, she asked, “What makes you feel it was wasted?” 

Jim eyed her with confusion, the answer obvious to him. “I didn’t-- _say_ anything.” 

“Sometimes,” she said, laying the PADD down on the small table beside her and folding her hands in her lap, “you don’t have to.” She smiled kindly at him and finished with, “I’ll see you next week, Jim.”

He returned to the apartment frustrated and hovering on the brink of some unidentifiable emotion that made his eyes prick with tears, and vowed to try harder next time. 

* * *

When he arrived for his next appointment, however, he found himself just as stuck as he had been before. He tried several times to speak but ended up trailing off or cutting himself off, and his frustration grew with each failed attempt. 

Dr. Holt sat patiently, waiting for him to speak for some time before she intervened. With a small smile, she asked, “May I ask you some questions, Jim?” 

He shrugged stiffly and answered, “Sure,” already bracing himself for the invasive and uncomfortable questioning he had grown to expect: _tell me about losing your father, what was your mother like, how was your childhood, how are you feeling?_

But instead, she quietly said, “What are your plans for the week?” 

And Jim answered. 

* * *

He decided if he was going to commit to it, then he might as well go all the way with it. So one day in their apartment-- between pages of the novel he had recently begun, desperate to take his mind off of the ever increasing flood of meetings and reports he had to do in order for the investigation into the events on Altamid to proceed-- he asked Bones just how confidential therapists were required to be. 

“Pretty damn confidential,” Bones replied, a touch of surprise on his face, looking up from his PADD. “They don’t share anything with anybody unless there’s an immediate danger to their patient or to others.” 

Jim nodded thoughtfully, running a finger down the spine of the book he held and shifted in his seat, tucking his feet up under his legs. 

“Why do you ask?” Bones prompted, after a moment. 

Jim shrugged lightly, one shoulder raising. “I’m thinking of telling her about… everything.” 

Bones paused. “You mean like--”

“Everything,” Jim reiterated. “All of it.” 

Bones set his PADD to the side, focusing his full attention on Jim. Jim fidgeted restlessly under his gaze. “Well,” Bones continued after a brief silence, “I think that’s a really good idea, kid.” 

Jim released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relief flooding him. “Really?” he asked, hating how small his voice sounded. “You do?” 

Bones nodded. “It can only help, if you ask me. Having someone impartial to help process some of the bad shit-- it can be really good.” 

“Careful, Bones,” Jim quipped softly. “Your psych degree is showing.” 

Bones tossed his stylus at him, and Jim couldn’t help the quirk of his lips as the pen bounced off his shoulder and rolled away, forcing Bones to rise to retrieve it. 

“I’m just saying,” the doctor continued with a groan as he bent to pick up the utensil, “It’s been beneficial for me. I think it’s a good idea.” 

“Me too,” Jim admitted. “Scares the hell out of me but--” 

Bones clapped a hand on his shoulder as he passed on his way back to his seat. “It’s ok to be scared, kid. So long as you try. That’s all anyone can ask.” 

* * *

It got worse before it got better. 

Actually, it just got worse. 

Opening up the flood of bad memories was painful and often more dramatic than Jim would have liked. Allowing himself to acknowledge and respond to things that he’d cultivated over a decade of shoving down and ignoring was like prodding at an open wound. It hurt, and half the time he couldn’t remember why he’d decided to do it in the first place. 

Forcing himself to return week after week just to rip himself open and lay himself bare emotionally was a test of endurance he had no way of preparing for. Forcing himself to sit with the small, patient doctor and to use the words she did, like “abuse” and “trauma” and “neglect” _hurt_ , and more than once he was unable to bring himself to do it. 

Dr. Holt calmly spoke to him about denial and processing, and everything taking time. He tried to follow her instructions to be patient with himself, but with the ever growing list of things that demanded his attention in the wake of losing the _Enterprise_ , it felt like wasting time he didn’t have to spare. 

More than once he considered quitting altogether, just canceling all of his upcoming appointments and continuing on the way he always had. But he’d decided to commit to it, and honestly, he didn’t think he could keep going the way he had been before for much longer. 

But dragging everything up again-- Frank, Tarsus, Nero, Khan-- was taking its toll. 

He was finally able to settle into a reasonable sleep schedule, but his rest was often disturbed by nightmares that brought him to consciousness-- panting and alert, heart racing and sometimes with tears streaming down his face-- several times throughout the night. 

And they hadn’t even gotten to recent events yet. 

Fuck. 

* * *

“Why now?” he asked Dr. Holt at their next appointment, tugging harshly at his hair as he sat slumped in his seat. “Why this? Of all things, why is this the one I can’t seem to come back from?”

“Because you’ve had your stability ripped away from you, very suddenly and very dramatically,” she replied levelly. “That would be hard for anyone to take.” 

And when Jim thought about what she had said, about how he' had never had any stability in his life before Starfleet? It scared the hell out of him. 

* * *

_His mom ran her fingers through his hair, the thin tips of her nails scratching lightly against his scalp where he lay curled up in her lap._

_“You came sooner than we expected,” she continued, her soft lilting voice rich with affection. “We weren’t prepared in the least.”_

_He laughed as she poked gently at his neck, finding a ticklish spot before continuing. “And your father--” she broke off with a laugh, “your father, that fool of a man, do you know what he said when you were born?”_

_He blinked up at her, golden hair framing her face as she gazed down at him lovingly and gently swiped her thumbs across his cheekbones. “What?”_

_“Well, I wanted to name you Tiberius-- he said no,” she smiled, tapping him lightly on the nose as he chuckled. “Thank god. And then, just when you were about to make your way into the world, they rushed me off to delivery, and he said-- get to your Kelvin Pods.”_

_He stopped laughing. “What?”_

_Though it was his mother’s mouth moving, it was a male voice that fell from her lips. His voice._

_“Get to your Kelvin Pods,” she repeated, still with his voice, and he found himself unable to speak, unable to reply as he shot upright in alarm. “Get to your Kelvin Pods. Get to your Kelvin Pods. Get to your Kelvin--”_

_“Captain!”_

_He whirled at the call, turning on his heel and finding himself no longer in the farmhouse, the hazy sunlight replaced with the cool flare of the artificial lighting of a starship._

_“Captain!” the cry came again, and his eyes moved wildly, seeking the source. Sulu was staring at him in wide eyed panic, they all were, what the hell was going on?_

_“Report, Lieutenant,” he choked out, vying for composure as his head spun._

_“Their weapons are trained on us and ready to fire,” Sulu informed him. “We have no weapons, and our shields are down--”_

_“Who--?” he began, but then he saw it. There, looming before them, stark against the vast void of space, was the Vengeance. Jim could just imagine Marcus’ smug expression, his belief that he would get away with this, with any of this--_

_“Captain, should we abandon ship?”_

_Jim blinked rapidly, confusion mounting. “What?”_

_“Should we abandon ship?” Sulu enunciated carefully, exchanging a worried glance with the young man at his side._

_“I don’t think--”_

_The alarms blared. The bridge filled with red light._

_“Captain, you must decide! He’s powering up--”_

_“I don’t--”_

_“Just like I always said,” came a voice from behind him. “Worthless.”_

_Again, Jim whipped around to face the speaker. “Frank?”_

_His stepfather leaned against the back of the captain’s chair, Jim’s chair, languid and cocky, a sneer plastered across his face. “You never could make a decision to save your life, Jimmy Boy,” he drawled, lacing his tone with pity._

_Jim’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking ab--”_

_“Well,” Frank continued, speaking over him. “What about their lives, Jimbo?”_

_“What?”_

_Before Jim realized he had moved, Frank was on him, clutching his arms in a bruising grip and spinning him around to face the bridge once more, a hand snaking up to grip his jaw, directing his gaze to his crew. “What would you do to save them?”_

_But it wasn’t the bridge. It was dark, and damp, every sound echoing off the rough rock walls like a shot-- Jim knew this place._

_“This isn’t happening,” he breathed in disbelief. “This--”_

_“Captain,” Uhura whispered, trembling with fear as she caught his eye. “You have to be quiet.”_

_Jim shook his head wildly, holding his hands up to ward off any attempts to touch him as he stumbled back. “This isn’t happening,” he repeated, louder._

_"Jim,” Bones muttered, voice sharp but quiet, “they’ll hear you.”_

_“No, no--” Jim continued, moving away from them all as they implored him to stop speaking. “No--”_

_“Captain, please,” Spock joined the chorus of voices. “Think of the children.”_

_Jim paused, staring at Spock in abject horror and confusion. “What children?”_

_And only then did Jim realize that mingled amongst the crew, settled in the laps and arms of his officers were a small assortment of children, filthy and thin, too thin, and their eyes--_

_Movement outside the mouth of the cave rustled the foliage, and Jim held his breath as he turned slowly, so slowly, to see-- the bodies._

_The bodies._

_Piles of bodies, dressed in red, blue, gold-- familiar faces, such familiar faces and they were dead, they were all dead-- “No, no, no, no--”_

_A hand on his shoulder. Jim gasped and pulled away, facing the other person in the cave with him._

_And there stood George Kirk._

_Panting harshly, heart pounding furiously, he choked out, “Dad?”_

_George’s gaze swept around the cavern, distantly taking in the corpses strewn haphazardly throughout the space. Finally, he met Jim’s eye._

_“I dare you to do better.”_

* * *

Jim jolted awake, gasping for air and sweating horribly. Focusing on steadying his breaths, he dragged his hands down his face as he waited for his heartrate to slow. After several minutes staring blindly into the dark, he turned to the clock on his bedside table. 

0300 hours. 

He threw his head back against his pillow in frustration. He was so goddamn sick of this. 

He laid there for over an hour before giving up and making his way to the kitchenette to rummage up some coffee. He did his best to move quietly-- a skill born from years of necessity-- and settled himself at the island countertop, staring into his mug, watching the dark, bitter liquid swirl around his cup. 

It took less than five minutes for Bones to join him. The doctor didn’t say a word; he entered the room slowly, dressed in sleep pants and a loose fitting t-shirt, and poured himself a cup of coffee, sitting opposite Jim at the island. 

He sat motionless for a time, sipping his own drink and letting the silence hover between them, giving Jim the space to talk if he wanted to. Finally, when it became clear that Jim wouldn’t-- or couldn’t, he wasn’t really sure-- speak, Bones simply reached across the counter and laid a hand on Jim’s arm in silent support. 

And if a few tears slipped out from beneath Jim’s eyelashes while they sat there, he never made a sound-- and they never mentioned it again.

* * *

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, swiping roughly at his eyes. 

Dr. Holt countered immediately, correcting him with a firm, “Yes, you can.” 

“I’m so tired,” he croaked before he could stop himself. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat-- I just want things to go back to normal--” 

“And they will,” she insisted. Jim envied her confidence in that statement. 

“How do you know?” he asked, hating the desperation in his voice as he glanced up at her pleadingly. 

She shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “Because you’re here. And you’re trying.” 

He gaped at her, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to form the words he was aching to say. “Is that enough?” 

“It’s all anyone can ask of you, Jim,” she answered. “That you try. It just takes time.” 

He grew more tired of that answer every day. 

* * *

The memorial takes place on a Sunday afternoon, smaller than the last one Jim had attended after everything with Marcus and the _Vengeance_ , but that was due primarily to distance. They had their memorial on Yorktown with a live feed streaming directly to Starfleet HQ in San Francisco. 

Spock had offered to make the speech, but Jim had respectfully declined. It was his job, his duty as captain. The ever solid presence of his first officer standing behind him was comforting, nonetheless. 

Jim made it through the ceremony with his dignity intact, though his chest ached painfully as he honored the crew that had been lost, a tight pressure forming behind his sternum that wouldn’t abate. Throughout his delivery, he did his best to keep up the steady mantra of _keep it together, keep it together_ , and managed to maintain the cool confidence that everyone had come to expect from Starfleet’s poster child. 

If he left a little early, well, no one seemed to notice. 

* * *

Uhura definitely noticed, because of course she did, something Jim learned about five minutes after he arrived back home when she knocked at his door. 

With a sigh of resignation, he moved to let her in, not surprised at all that she brushed past him the second the door opened wide enough.

“So, you thought you were just going to sneak off alone?” she asked, a bite to her tone. “Today, of all days?” 

Jim stood in the doorway for a long moment before he turned to face her. “Hello to you, too,” he droned sarcastically. “Won’t you come in?” 

“Cut the crap,” she chided gently. “What’s going on with you?” 

Jim threw himself gracelessly into the nearest chair. “What are you talking about? I went, I gave the speech, I--” 

“You’ve been acting off for weeks,” she interrupted, crossing her arms and leaning her elbows against the back of his chair. “No one’s seen you for more than ten minutes at a time and as soon as there’s an opportunity for us to see you, spend some time with you, you run off at the first chance you get? That’s not like you. So I’ll ask again: what’s going on with you?” 

He sighed, refraining from turning to look at her and instead focusing on his hands where they hung in his lap. “I’ve just been busy,” he answered, half-heartedly and already knowing she wouldn’t accept it at face value. 

“We’ve all been busy,” she countered. “I know you and Spock in particular have a lot of bureaucracy to wade through-- I can only imagine the paperwork-- but even he’s taken breaks now and then.” Rounding the chair, she came to a halt in front of him, perching herself on the low coffee table and taking his hands in hers. “We miss you. What’s going on in that head of yours?” 

Jim stared at their hands, clasped together and realized with a start that he couldn’t remember anyone but Bones touching him in ages. The contact, in combination with the words she was saying, pushed at his barely upheld control, and he took several deep, even breaths before he responded. 

“I’m just busy.” Feeling her shift, he cut her off before she could speak. “No, I know just-- there’s a lot going on right now, you’re right. There’s paperwork and planning and hoops to jump through and meetings and it’s-- it’s not a good excuse, it’s not an _excuse_ , I just-- it’s… it’s not that simple.” 

She sat silently for a long moment before she replied, “So you’re avoiding us. Is it that bad?” 

There was no accusation in her voice, if anything she sounded understanding, and Jim’s ego bristled. He didn’t need her to understand, he didn’t _want_ her to understand, not this, never this-- and he certainly didn’t want her _pity._

“Is _what_ that bad?” he asked, careful to keep his voice low and fighting the urge to rip his hands from her grasp and pace, anything to displace some of the nervous tension that was building in him with each passing minute. 

She ducked her head, meeting his eye knowingly. “We’ve all been through hell. You don’t need to hide from us if you’re struggling or--”

“I’m fine.” 

“Jim--”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted, removing his hands from hers and standing carefully, stepping around her and moving to the kitchenette for a glass of water, if only for something to do. “It’s-- I’m handling it, ok? I just need to--”

“To shut yourself away from your crew, your friends?” she asked, her footsteps coming closer, but stopping in the archway that led to the kitchen as raised the glass to his lips. “Jim-- we’re worried about you. _I’m_ worried about you. We’ve barely seen you since… everything. You’ve clearly lost weight. Are you sleeping?” 

“Nyota,” he said sharply, “enough. I’m handling it--” 

“Handling it how?” she pressed. “Are you seeing someone about all of this? I assume Leonard knows--”

Jim whirled to face her, fragile control fraying at the edges, and slammed his glass down. Water splashed over the edges, soaking the edge of his sleeves. “Uhura, stop-- I already told you--”

“There’s no shame in getting help, you know.”

“I _know_ that!” he cried, breathing heavily. He took a moment to compose himself before he repeated, “I know. And to answer your questions, yes, Bones knows, yes, I am seeing someone-- but it is _none_ of your business.” 

The water hit his stomach with a sickening rush of cold. All at once, he realized that he was standing in the smallest kitchen known to man, still in full dress uniform-- he hadn’t even taken off his hat yet-- yelling at his communications officer about their _feelings_ , of all things… and it struck him as hilarious. God, he had missed her. He missed all of them. 

A few months ago he would have given anything for this kind of familiarity, facing off with this small but formidable woman who could verbally-- and quite possibly physically-- kick his ass any day of the week. 

A few months ago they wouldn’t have been having this conversation. 

A few months ago, they still had a home. 

A few months ago, things made sense. 

He scoffed quietly, lips quirking at the edges as he softly apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.” 

She returned a gentle smile of her own. “That wasn’t yelling. You should have heard Len the other day when Chekov asked him about the symptoms of Aldavarian herpes… _that_ was yelling. I think he forgets sometimes that Chekov isn’t seventeen anymore.” 

Jim exhaled a laugh. “I can’t believe he broke up with Nadrea. She was perfect for him.” 

“Yeah, well,” she quipped dismissively. “He’s twenty two. Not quite ready to settle down yet.” 

Twenty two. The same age Jim had been when he joined up. “God, time moves fast, doesn’t it?” he whispered, the question escaping him without thought. 

She leaned casually against the wall. “Too fast,” she agreed. 

A long, comfortable silence stretched between them. Finally, Jim met her eye, and with a rush of vulnerability asked, “We’re going to get through this, right?” 

She moved to embrace him, and he sank into the hug with a heavy sigh. Rubbing his back, she answered, “ _We’re_ going to be just fine. What about you?”

He squeezed her a little tighter when he replied, “I’m trying.” 

And she held him just a moment longer as she said, “Ok.” 

* * *

He made more of an effort, after that. He had sat with Uhura and talked for what seemed like hours, about everything and nothing, catching up with her and making up lost time from her rough patch with Spock-- something he now understood had nothing to do with her, and nothing to do with him, and everything to do with a misplaced sense of loyalty, something he understood well. He couldn’t fault Spock for wanting to do right by his people; he took issue with the execution, but he wouldn’t hold it against the guy. 

Nyota had filled him in on the bridge crew, had opened up a bit about her own experience on Altamid, and Jim had done his best to reciprocate without dumping everything on her. She had her own issues to deal with, she didn’t need his added to the pile. But she seemed to be doing well, overall, and Jim was glad. 

They were still sitting together talking when Bones made his way home from the memorial, and if he was surprised to see her there he didn’t let on. He sank onto the couch with a sigh and joined the conversation effortlessly, the three of them fumbling through the awkwardness of shared trauma and reconnecting until the topics shifted to lighter subjects, and they took a break to order in some dinner. 

For the first time in a long time, Jim managed to clear his plate, the easy discussion and companionship distracting him from his own thoughts enough that he ate without question and the food didn’t make his stomach roil in disgust. 

And when Spock showed up to walk Uhura home, he ended up joining them for tea-- Jim wasn’t supposed to drink with his meds and alcohol did nothing for the half Vulcan anyway-- and the added presence of his first officer loosened some of the ever present tension in Jim’s chest and he felt like he could breathe again. 

It was the best afternoon Jim had had in ages.

He slept without nightmares that night. 

* * *

“I know it’s not my fault,” he said, hoping it didn’t sound as placating as it felt, “logically, at least. But--” Jim swallowed heavily, forcing himself to continue. “-- if it’s not my _fault_ , then why does this shit keep happening to me?” He choked out a bitter laugh. “I feel like my entire life has been transitioning from one egomaniac to another. And most of the time, I deliberately provoked them.”

Dr. Holt eyed him curiously over the rim of her glasses, folding her hands under her chin. “That may be,” she replied carefully. “There’s something to be said for different personality types drawing certain attention from others, and it’s entirely possible that at times you’ve deliberately incited some form of reaction for one reason or another. But I think if we were to sit down and look at specific instances we’d find a very telling pattern of self sacrifice or coping.” 

Jim stared at his knee, his leg bouncing anxiously as he rubbed his palms together. “But--”

“Jim,” she cut him off, waiting until he met her eye before continuing. “I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it: no child deserves to experience violence. No matter what you did in your adolescence, it was the responsibility of the adults in your life to protect you, not to harm you. And anything you’ve done to protect the ones you love cannot reasonably be held against you. Do you understand?” 

“I do,” he conceded. “And I get what you’re saying. But if I continuously pushed boundaries and picked fights--” 

“Then you pushed boundaries and picked fights,” she replied. “Does your crew never push boundaries? Has a friend never picked a fight with you?” 

He sighed, aggravated. “Of course they have, but--”

“And would that ever, in any circumstance, justify hurting them in some way?” 

Jim hesitated for a moment. “Of course not.” 

“Then I think you have the answer you’re looking for.” 

Jim sat quietly for a minute, taking in what she had said. Finally, with a small, shaky smirk, he said, “I hate it when you talk me into a corner like this.” 

Her own lips quirked in reply. “There are no corners, Jim. Human interaction doesn’t fit in a box. It’s complicated and messy, and everyone is just doing the best they know how to do.” With a small furrow of her brow, she said more seriously, “The people in your life should have done better. And the fact that you have become the man you are today in spite of that is nothing short of amazing.”

Jim felt his face heating as a blush crept up his neck. “I’m just--” 

“You are a good person, Jim Kirk,” she insisted. “And I hope one day you’ll see that, and believe it. But for today, it’s enough to know that it wasn’t your fault. Not your father’s death, not your stepfather’s violence against you, not Tarsus, not any of the Starfleet political mishaps, and certainly not what happened on Altamid. It wasn’t your fault.

Most of what you’ve been through wasn’t about _you_ . It was about power. It was about control. You’ve had some bad luck, and I wish I had a better explanation for you than that, but I don’t. But the things you’ve been through, Jim? The things that have been done _to_ you? They’re not your fault.” 

Jim took several moments to compose himself before clearing his throat. “It’s not my fault?” 

She smiled reassuringly. “No, Jim. It’s not your fault.” 

And in that moment, he believed her. 

* * *

He still had nightmares. The first few times he’d stumbled out to the kitchen to make himself coffee and distract himself until the day began, but Bones had always heard and come out to be sure Jim was alright. Not wanting to disturb his friend, Jim had resigned himself to facing them, curling up on his bed and waiting until he could drift back to sleep and hope the process wouldn’t repeat. 

He still had trouble eating. But that had been a long standing issue, and he’d more or less accepted that he’d have to deal with it for the rest of his life. 

He still had to force himself not to hole up in his room and hide in there until the world opened up and swallowed him whole. 

But he kept going. He attended his weekly therapy appointments. He took his meds. He ate when he was prompted and tried to sleep at normal times. 

Time kept passing. The framework of the _Enterprise_ drew closer to completion with each passing day. Jim hoped he could catch up by the time she was ready. 

* * *

He’d done the whole wallowing in self-pity thing long enough. His people needed him to be around-- if only for morale purposes-- so he’d started making himself available to them more often following the memorial, showing up at the training facilities, forcing himself to go out into the city’s common areas, opening his inbox to allow unfiltered comminiques should his crew wish to contact him. 

But so far, two weeks in, not many of them had. He’d bumped into the odd crew member here and there, but most simply greeted him, exchanged pleasantries, and went on their way. 

And for the first time since the whole thing had begun, he found himself truly believing that they might be ok after all. 

A few people contact him with minor requests or questions regarding the rebuild of the _Enterprise_ , but really, overall, he’s not as needed as he seemed to think he was. And deep down, he was grateful for that, if a little jilted. 

* * *

It’s Chekov who reaches out to him to see if he’d like to go for a run sometime, and while Jim hadn’t been slacking on exercise-- one of the few things he had going for him was the endorphin rush and distraction that working out provided-- he couldn’t think of a reason to say no, so he agreed. 

_I’m free tomorrow morning,_ he sent, before he could talk himself out of it. 

Chekov replied with a comm that read: _Excellent! I shall see you at 0500 hours, captain!_

And Jim was by no means old, despite sometimes feeling like he’d endured several lifetimes… but son of a bitch he was going to murder the kid. 

Bones asked about the despondent and horrified look that must have come over his face and in return Jim simply held his communicator out to the other man, lowering his head into his hands and shoving his glasses up onto his head and out of the way. 

“I get that he’s twenty two and all,” he complained massaging his temples, “but five in the morning? That’s insane.” 

Bones’ raucous laughter flooded the room a moment later and, returning the communicator to Jim he chortled, “Payback’s a bitch, kid.” 

Jim flipped him the bird as he made his way to his room. If he had to get up at five in the goddamn morning, he sure as hell would try to get some sleep first. Thank god he’d been sleeping better lately. He was going to need it. 

* * *

“Chekov,” Jim said between breaths as he ran through the rain beside his navigational officer, “Don’t take this the wrong way-- but I hate you a little bit right now.” 

Chekov snickered. “Duly noted, Keptin.”

It was pouring, and the ground was slick and dark, the simulated daylight of Yorktown only just beginning to illuminate the park they were in. They were somewhere around their fourth mile of jogging, and Jim’s calves and lungs were burning. 

When the rain increased yet again, turning the torrent of rain to a downpour, they took shelter at a nearby cafe, and Jim ordered them each a coffee to warm them up while they waited it out. Easing his rapidly cooling body into one of the hard vinyl chairs, Jim slid one of the cups across the table to the younger man, cradling his own in the hopes of thawing out his fingers. 

They each sipped at their drinks for a bit before Jim broke the silence. “So, Chekov, how’ve you been holding up?” 

Chekov hastily swallowed the coffee in his mouth before answering, “I’ve been alright, Keptin. Better than some of the others.” 

Jim nodded; from the reports he’d received the majority of the crew was recouping nicely. The bridge crew in particular had been recommended for post crisis counseling, but it seemed like with a few exceptions-- himself included-- it was more of a formality than anything. He knew Uhura and Sulu were still attending regular sessions, but the rest of the crew seemed to have decreased the frequency of their appointments or stopped altogether with written permission from the counselors. 

He was damn proud of his crew; they’d been asked-- _forced_ \-- to do things they never should have had to consider, seen things they never should have had to think about. But they would be ok. That’s what mattered, in the end. 

But he hadn’t seen or heard from Chekov much since they’d settled into their new lodgings. By all reports, he’d been slipping off somewhere during the days, returning in the early evening but spending most of his time alone after breaking things off with his lady friend. 

“How’ve you been filling your time?” he asked the Russian curiously. 

“Oh,” Chekov chirped excitedly. “I’ve found that the libraries here are extensively equipped with literature regarding long distance transportation theory. I have been looking into ways to extend the transporter capability on the new _Enterprise,_ and--” 

Jim smirked into his drink as he listened to the kid blather on excitedly about the latest greatest tech. 

The kid was going to be just fine. 

* * *

Things improved for them all, slowly but surely. 

While he still had off days, Jim found himself sleeping through the night four to five nights a week, and steadily regaining some of the weight he’d lost. The former did wonders for his mood; the latter was due almost entirely to Bones forcing food on him almost every time they were in the same room together. 

It was an old routine, tried and true, and Jim did his best to grin and bear it. Ultimately, he knew that Bones was only trying to help, and logically he knew that he needed it. Even so, there were times when it was hard not to bristle against the carefully offered snacks and suggestions to eat; more than once he had snapped at the doctor about it. Thankfully, Bones had the patience of a saint when it came to things that really mattered, and he knew enough about Jim’s food issues not to take much offense. 

Spock had started coming by a few days a week to begin preparations for shipping out, and Jim found the friendly bickering that ensued when his first officer and CMO were in close quarters endlessly amusing. If he suspected that they were overdoing it on purpose for his benefit, he tried not to let on. 

He had been working on allowing these little shows of support in addition to the more obvious assists, actively reminding himself that they came from a place of affection rather than misplaced pity or obligation. It was an uphill battle; for all that his crew was amazing and Bones had spent the better part of the last eight years convincing him that even he needed help sometimes, Jim had spent the majority of his life facing his problems alone. It was a hard habit to break. 

Convincing him that he _deserved_ the help was another matter entirely, but he was getting there, little by little. He’d take whatever victories he could get. 

Scotty and Chekov dragged him out of his apartment every so often to oversee final installations or to try to convince him to sign off on exorbitant upgrades to engineering and the transporters; while he declined most of them, there were a few that he had to admit had merit, and together the three of them drafted proposals and requested the necessary approval from Starfleet Command. They didn’t always win, but the technology they were able to obtain put them well ahead of every other ship in the ‘fleet, and Jim couldn’t contain the thrill of excitement at the thought that the _Enterprise_ would once again be the best of the best. 

Sulu requested additional funding to reinitiate his botany research, and Jim did his best but headquarters was not amenable to spending yet more additional funding for something they considered a “pet project”,. Jim deleted the denial before it made its way to Sulu and sent the helmsman some resources for grant funding that he could look into instead. Picking his battles, and all of that. 

Uhura, thank god, didn’t want any additional money or equipment, for which he was thankful. But she did want his approval to teach onboard courses in basic languages for any of the crew who were so willing, particularly Vulcan as it was now a dying language. 

Jim saw it for what it was and signed off on it immediately with a quiet, “That’s a really great thing to do for him, Nyota. I’m sure he’ll be grateful.” 

She refused to meet his eye, blushing furiously, and muttered, “Shut up. And thank you.” 

Unable to resist teasing her, just a little, he continued, “You should probably start off with some poetry, just to really get the ball rolling.” 

“Oh my-- just drop it,” she huffed. 

“No, really-- I think-- you know what I think? I think you should _write_ him some poetry!” 

She laughed, exasperated. “I swear, Kirk, I will leave this table--” 

“Spock,” he began in a ridiculously affected falsetto, “shall I compare thee to a Vulcan day? You’re both way too hot for us humans--” he realized his mistake too late. Scrambling to rectify the situation, he clarified, “Hot like… temperature. You know? Vulcan was hot as hell--” 

Her answering smile was downright wicked. “I’m going to tell Spock you think he’s hot.” 

“Don’t you dare--” 

“I’m going to tell him that you wrote a poem about how hot he is,” she continued, over his protests.

“I will put you on Beta shift for a month, I will deprogram hot chocolate from the replicators--” 

“Worth it,” she declared, rising from her seat and making her way to the door. 

And despite the embarrassment he knew he would face for weeks-- if not months-- if she followed through on her threat, Jim couldn’t stop smiling. 

They were getting there. Slowly but surely. 

* * *

The dark days still came around. All part of the ups and downs of life, Dr. Holt assured him, but something to be mindful of nonetheless. He tried to remind himself of that on the days he couldn’t move.

They grew further apart. Something he was doing was working; he wasn’t sure if it was the meds or the therapy or both, but he wasn’t going to complain. He at least felt _functional_ again, most of the time. 

He had a list of coping techniques to use in case he had an anxiety attack. He had a list of things that shouldn’t be mixed with his meds, and he stuck to it religiously. He had a list of things to do, and a list of things to delegate-- something Dr. Holt had mandated in order to balance his time between doing things for others and doing things for himself, so long as the things he did for himself did not consist of staying in bed all day. 

His whole life seemed to be comprised of lists, at this point, but it was preferable to how things were before, so he accepted it with a grain of salt. 

He had fallen into a routine, and things felt more stable than they had in a long time, longer than he’d care to admit. 

He found himself cautiously hopeful about going forward. 

* * *

The call came in late one evening, and Jim roused himself from where he’d been dosing on the couch to fumble blindly for his communicator as it chirped. 

“Kirk here,” he answered, scrubbing at the grit in the corners of his eyes with the fingers of his free hand. 

“Captain,” came Spock’s voice, even and low. 

“Spock,” Jim replied in greeting, hoisting himself more fully upright. “What can I do for you?” 

Spock hesitated ever so slightly before he answered. “They have obtained the data logs from the _Enterprise_. They will be ready for review tomorrow at 1500 hours.” 

“Shit,” Jim murmured, stunned. “I-- I guess we should inform the bridge crew?” 

Spock agreed, following his affirmation with, “Shall I draft the message?” 

Jim shook his head, though Spock couldn’t see him. “No, I got it. Thanks, Spock.

“I will see you tomorrow, Jim,” Spock answered before the line went dead. 

Jim typed out and deleted fifteen variations on requests for the senior bridge crew to meet him the next day at a nearby conference room that had been made available to them. He didn’t want anyone to feel as if they had to be present if they would find the review compromising to their emotional well-being, but he also couldn’t deny how much he hoped for their presence and support for his own. 

In the end, he threw formality out the window and sent, “The logs are ready. Spock and I will be reviewing the tomorrow at 1500 hours in conference room C at ‘fleet HQ. No pressure.” 

He then promptly threw his communicator into the corner, snaked his hands into his hair, and flung himself backwards onto the bed with a groan. 

* * *

They all came. Every single one of them. 

They sat around the large rectangular table, Jim at the head, Spock at his right, Bones at his left, and the others scattered out from there with the designated Starfleet analyst seated at the opposite end. They looked sharp as ever in their uniforms, and Jim did his best not to look as nervous as he felt and to show his gratitude for their presence.

The debrief took hours. The logs were extensive, timestamps of each given command, each movement on the ship, each breach of the hull, each pod deployment-- and voice recordings to go along with it all. 

Jim kept it together by running a mental list of Starfleet protocol, checking off each item as it appeared in the records. 

By the time it was all over and done with, he was stunned to realize that they had done everything right. The analyst praised them on their quick thinking and immediate action in the face of such overwhelming circumstances. They had followed protocol to the letter, listened to their training, done everything in their power to stop the attack, to protect their people, and when necessary had accepted defeat. 

That last one stung, a little, some distant remnant of Jim’s younger self bristling at the thought of a true no-win scenario. But it had been. 

And he had done everything he could. They all had. 

He couldn’t ask for more than that. 

The losses still hurt. The absence of his crew and his ship ached, a deep wound that would never heal completely. But as he looked around at his people, his family, and listened to the analyst succinctly and carefully explain as Spock had, as Bones had, as Dr. Holt had, that it wasn’t their fault, wasn’t _his_ fault… maybe it ached a little less. 

* * *

The night before they were scheduled to ship out, Jim and Bones spent the evening packing up the meager belongings they had managed to accumulate during their time on the starbase, primarily clothes, a few electronics, toiletries, and not much else. 

They finished earlier than they had expected to, and after a while standing awkwardly among the boxes in their empty living room, Bones shoved his hands into his pockets and said, “So… hungry?” 

Jim shrugged, shoving a hand beneath his glasses to rub at his eyes. “What did you have in mind” 

Bones moved to the entryway, grabbing their coats. “Come with me. There’s a truly awful little diner near the medical center that I think you’ll like.” 

Accepting his jacket from Bones, Jim followed. 

They hadn’t made it far when Bones observed, “So you’ve been wearing your glasses a lot more often, lately.” 

“Yeah,” Jim agreed. “They’re easier than the contacts. I’ll probably switch back once we ship out, too much of a hazard on duty.” 

“You know,” Bones suggested, “there’s a new variation on the lasik we can look into--”

“Pass, thanks.” 

Bones rolled his eyes. “You’re such an infant.”

“Lasers, Bones,” Jim reminded him, because apparently Bones had forgotten just how horrifying several of the more commonplace procedures actually were. “ _Lasers_ in your _eyes_.”

“Medically sound medical procedures,” Bones countered, “that we’ve been doing for hundreds of years--”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” 

They walked in silence for a time, finally arriving and seating themselves at the diner in a little booth towards the back. They ordered and chatted idly for a while, just enjoying each other’s company, and Jim was all at once struck with gratitude for his friend. 

Bones had been through every up and down of the last several years with him, this most recent disaster notwithstanding, and he’d done it all with a steadfast confidence and support that Jim had come to find invaluable. Without Bones-- well, Jim didn’t know where he’d be, but certainly not here. Not by a longshot. 

Before he had consciously decided to speak, he said, “Thank you for-- for everything these last few months… years. Just--” 

Bones laid a hand on his forearm reassuringly, and Jim was relieved as Bones once again anticipated Jim’s thoughts and saved him from fumbling awkwardly through a poor attempt at explaining them. “Always, kid. But you don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad to see you’re doin’ better.” 

Jim nodded, shifting uncomfortably as he felt the intensity of Bones’ gaze. “Still,” he continued. “Thank you. I really do appreciate… everything.” 

Lowering his voice Bones murmured, “I’m here, kid. I’m always here.” 

Jim nodded as he pulled his glass towards himself. “Right back at you.” 

“Good.” 

Taking a sip of his water as his throat grew dry, Jim said, in an attempt to shift subjects, “So can I ask you something?”

“Course,” Bones replied amiably. 

Looking at him curiously, Jim continued, “How were you able to fly that ship?” 

Bones scoffed out a laugh. “You took the same flight classes as I did.”

“No, I know _how,”_ Jim clarified, “but-- how? Did your phobia--?” he trailed off, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. 

Bones shook his head in denial. “It’s still there. Not as bad, but there. I had a few other things to be worried about, is all.”

“That makes sense…” Pursing his lips in thought, Jim continued, “Did I ever tell you how proud I was, seeing you flying like that?” 

Bones smirked appreciatively. “No, I don’t believe you did.” 

“Well--” Jim faltered. “ I was.”

“Thank you.” After a long drink of his iced tea, Jim focused on gently spinning his glass in slow circles on the table, Bones nudged him gently under the table with his foot. “So we done with this sappy shit now, or--” 

“Yeah yeah,” Jim replied, waving a hand in dismissal. “We’re done.” Not wanting the silence to drift into uncomfortable fidgeting, he lifted his water in a toast. “To a head full of hair?” 

Bones jerked his chin towards Jim’s glasses, tapping his own cup against the younger man’s. “And perfect eyesight?” 

Jim snorted. “Speak for yourself.”

* * *

They spent most of the hour chatting amiably, Dr. Holt about a new book she had discovered which she thought would interest him and Jim about the final preparations before their ship out the next day. 

It was a far cry from their first appointment, a long and tense hour during which Jim could hardly bring himself to open his mouth. My how far they’d come. 

He took a moment to glance around, committing the small room to memory; the tall bookshelves stacked full of old fashioned leather-bound books, the pitcher of water and glasses on the small white end table in the corner, the handmade blanket draped in folds across the back of her chair. He would miss them, when he was gone. 

Somehow, in ways he had never expected, this woman had changed his life. He had come to take comfort in her small but cozy office, the simple but carefully thought out and well-loved possessions adorning the room. He looked forward to decorating his own quarters once onboard the _Enterprise._ He’d never put much stock into it before, but the hominess of personal belongings carefully placed throughout a room had a comforting effect he’d never stopped to consider before. 

When the conversation had slowed to a pause, Dr. Holt shifted the topic.“And how is your mood today?” 

“Good,” he replied sincerely. “I’m excited-- nervous, but excited.”

She documented his response on her PADD, eyes on the screen but attention clearly on him as she continued, “Any nightmares?” 

“No. Not for a few weeks now.” 

“And your appetite?” 

“Ok,” he admitted. “It’s hit or miss. Some days are better than others, but we’re supposed to have a bridge crew dinner later on tonight, so…” he trailed off with a shrug, leaning back in his seat. 

She beamed at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I am so proud of the progress you’ve made, Jim.” 

“Hey,” Jim responded, “I couldn’t have made it here without you.” 

“Perhaps not,” she hummed. “But you took the necessary steps to get yourself here. I just handed you maps along the way.”

Jim smirked as he nodded in agreement. “Well, thank god for your excellent navigational skills,” he drawled. “You sure I can’t persuade you to join us out there? All expenses paid for a two-year galaxy traversing vacation?” 

She chuckled, shooting him a fondly exasperated look.“My home is here. Rattling the stars, stirring up trouble?” she quipped, signing off on his final evaluation with a flourish. “That’s your area of expertise. But you can always call me, Jim. And I mean that.” 

With a chuckle of appreciation he replied, “I will take you up on that.” 

“Please do,” she insisted. “I’m curious to know what you’ll find out there.” She sent the signed report off to the proper channels, before putting her PADD into sleep mode and setting it aside, smiling warmly at him. “Our hour is up,” she announced, her tone affectionate but bittersweet. “It’s time to go back to your ship, Captain Kirk. It’s time for you to go home.”

Home. It was an unfamiliar concept for Jim, always had been. There had never been a place where he had truly felt he belonged, until the _Enterprise_. And when he lost her, he had felt displaced all over again. Homeless and drifting, lost and alone. But as he left Dr. Holt’s office for the last time-- bidding her farewell with a brief but sincere hug-- and checked his communicator, he saw the last minute reminders and messages awaiting him from the people who had become his crew, his friends, his family…

And he realized that maybe he had a home after all, ship or no. 

Home. 

A smile spread slowly across his face as he took a page from Dr. Holt’s book and sent off a message of his own.

_Let’s go rattle the stars._


End file.
